


Swim Away

by iggemmeil



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers: Prime
Genre: Bad Ends, F/M, Horror, M/M, Merformers, Multiple Bad Ends, Multiple Endings, Other, Reader Insert, Seriously guys, Slow Burn, Theres no good ending here, Thriller, Transformers Prime - Freeform, Transformers bayverse, Yandere, Yandere lovers, as in, read on your own risk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 45,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iggemmeil/pseuds/iggemmeil
Summary: Your friend warned you about something fishy about the whole ‘cheap resort’ thing, but still, you ignored her warning and signed up as one of the guests.Now you found out the thing that keeps giving her bad feeling, you knew you really should leave the island that instant.Unfortunately, the inhabitants did not agree with you.





	1. WARNING!!!! PLEASE READ FIRST BEFORE ENTERING THE NEXT CHAP

Your friend warned you about something fishy about the whole ‘cheap resort’ thing, but still, you ignored her warning and signed up as one of the guests.

Now you found out the thing that keeps giving her bad feeling, you knew you really should leave the island that instant.

Unfortunately, the inhabitants did not agree with you.

 

Mermaid!Transformers fic based on Finfolk of Orkney folklore, featuring:

 

Autobots:

  * Optimus Prime
  * Hot Rod
  * Ratchet
  * Bumblebee
  * Bulkhead
  * Smokescreen
  * Wheeljack
  * Ultra Magnus



 

Decepticons:

  * Megatron
  * Starscream
  * Soundwave
  * Knockout
  * Breakdown
  * Barricade
  * Shockwave
  * Steve the Vehicon



 

Warnings: freeform, TFP, MTMTE, and Bayverse cross-characters, adult material, swear words, yandere-element, different endings, dub-con (heavily), non-con, hypnosis, forced pregnancy, drug use, bad ends, multilation, and bad times ahead

 


	2. The Plan

Your room is an utter mess. Not your usual mess, but ‘mess’ as in your clothes, pants, undies, and stuff are all over the floor; your closet looked like it just puked out all of its content; and the breakfast dishes are left half washed in the sink, along with the last night dishes. Some of your drawers also pulled out and emptied, and it seems like someone knocked your shoe rack over without bothering to put back the shoes. The whole mess centered your bedroom, where your favorite song blares out loud while you’re too busy trying to decide which kind of sandals you’ll bring along.

That green one is nice, slippery-proof and comfy for your feet, alas they are old and worn out, and you’d more looking like a lost person than a tourist on vacation with that. The red one is sharp-looking, fresh-out-of-wrappers and fit to your feet just perfect, but you have none of the clothes you had packed matched with them, and you’d rather dig your own grave than to repack your suitcase again. _It’s a shame though_ , you thought, _I just bought those three days ago_. Your eyes wander absentmindedly, and there’s a person in yellow dress on your do—

“Did you got robbed or something?”

Your scream exploded in reflex, but that person is barely affected. It took a second for your brain to recognize the said person as Nadia, one of your closest friends, and five seconds for your heart to stop pounding like mad in your ribs.

“Goodness, Nad!” you yelled with one hand clutches lightly on your chest, “Ever heard of knocking?”

“No one answered so I let myself,” she answered flatly. Her eyes swept the whole room as she tip-toed into your bedroom, carefully not to touch the suspiciously dirty underwear near the bedpost, judging your mess and you. “I’ve been on a farm and that place has much more class this.”

“Thanks,” you replied, waving off her insult, “And no, there was no robbery. I was washing the dishes when I remembered I need my lucky necklace for tomorrow, but I don’t remember where I put it the last time so I searched the whole place. After three hours of panicking, I found it on the corner of my desk. Oh, and look, I also found some—“

“You’re really going to that itinerary, aren’t you?”

Your continuous story about some old books you found died abruptly on your tongue. Nadia is sitting on a clean spot on your bed now, arms and legs crossed as she made herself comfy, but her face is too tainted with worry to look completely comfortable.

‘The Itinerary’ she referred to is the one you got through e-mail two weeks ago. It was a perfect timing—your (workplace/college) gave you two weeks of day-off for holidays, and you’ve been looking to do something different when the ad popped up in your inbox. You checked everything, read the whole rules and regulations, called the CP and all, took one look at your bank account and filled the registration without any second thought. Nadia wore her Neutral Face of Disappointment when you told her what did you just signed up for.

She still staring at you with her big, honey-brown eyes, waiting like a mother to her child to explain themselves. Your song is still blaring in the background of the whole situation, and it’s not helping your position at all so you awkwardly crossed your room to shut it down first.

“Well, I have already signed up the online registration and—and paid for the trip cost and the personal cost,” you told her from three feet away, as you plugged off the speaker on the table off, “My ticket is already printed, too, so,” you turned around and shrugs, plopping your hands to your sides, “Yep. I’m going.”

She was silent for a while. “Where the island is again?”

“About ten-eleven hours by sea from New York.”

“And how did you know that?”

“The marketing team told me.”

Nadia crouched on your bed, palming her face with her both hands as she breathed in and breathed out, counting back in murmured voice. When she’s done, she asks you again, “So, like, $100 for trip cost and personal belonging, right? It also included the tax, three meals a day for one week, and other entertainments?”

You nodded, and she explodes, “Please tell me you at least suspicious at this, (Y/N). I mean, seriously?” her eyes got even bigger as she lay out all the fact, trying to fish out a doubt in you towards your plan, “That’s ten times cheaper than Hawaii’s cheapest packet trip! Hell, that’s even cheaper than Bali, where the fuck did they got their profit from?”

“I think about that too,” you replied calmly, “I also confused about the price. Nad, but—think again. Hilda Land was found three years ago, and they’ve just finished turning it into new resort area in, uh,” you counted your fingers, “five months ago. This resort island is practically a newborn baby among Hawaii and Bali-like islands—they’re not widely known. You got me here?”

Nadia, still frowning, nods once. You continue.

“If your name is not known among any country or society, Nad, especially in fields like this, your company is likely to collapse in short period of time. To solve this problem, they came up with an extreme solution; $40 for the trip cost, and $55 for the personal cost. Crazy, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“It is, but wait,” you flee to catch your smartphone you buried somewhere under all of these clothes, and when you found it, you showed her the page you bookmarked from last night. “Their tactic was successful, and lo’ and behold—a hundred guests, including me, had registered to this itinerary, and we’ll be leaving tomorrow at 11 p.m.! See?”

“But what if the whole thing is, you know, cheap?” her voice rose a little, “What kind of resort cost only $100 a week? What, do—do they have their own ship or what? They could feed you with rotten food or something!”

“It’s a tropical island, Nad. Food is everywhere on tropical islands.”

“What about the ship?”

“America is not the only country with rental ships, Nad. They probably rented it from another country.”

Nadia wasn’t even trying to lower the noise of her sigh and massaged her forehead. She’s your typical Mom Friend, and she honestly looks after you like her own biological child—Especially when the said child keeps taking decisions out of pure impulse.

You wanted to explain yourself again, but Nadia hold her hand up, “(Y/N), look; I’m your friend. I’m happy for the fact you actually want to go out of your usual zone to try new things, but not all new things are good news—like this one! I don’t—I mean, I couldn’t even—Just—Just explain to me, why you,” she gestured your whole self, “an ultimate lazy ass, who usually spends your weekend on Netflix and Thumbler—“

“Tumblr.”

“—suddenly interested in the itinerary?”

Your hand is now on the back of your neck, palming the whole area to absorb its warmth. Nadia’s hands now are on her hips again, yellow scarf waving sassily as she waits for your answer. “Well, as you said, I’m—I’m a lazy-ass, so I guess I want a little change…?”

Nadia’s eyes told you how close she is to pull her hair in frustration by now, but what you didn’t expect is for her to suddenly get up, stomped her way to you to grab you by shoulders to make you stay on your spot.

“Listen to me, (Y/N), _listen_ —I’ve had spent the whole night, searching information about this Hilda Land, and nothing showed up except anything else with similar names, okay? Hell, even Wiki _doesn’t have any info_ about this so-called resort island! What if—what if this is not what it seems to be?” her eyes blinked rapidly, voice getting higher, “There’s so much thing strangers could do to you on that island! What if this is actually, I dunno, a human trafficking? What if—“

The daily dose of her sass made you almost forgot the fact that she once a human trafficking victim when she was 5. Nadia never goes on full detail whenever she told you about the process, but you know she finally was found by an investigation team when she was 8, all beaten up and too traumatized to have any proper conversation even in her own language. Her parents never showed up, and the team couldn’t find them anywhere. Nadia spent three years in a rehabilitation facility before a couple from Michigan decided to take her in. As she grows up, Nadia hides her PTSD with her sassy attitude. She told you these when you’re in high school, a year before graduation because she was pushed by her protective nature over your impulsive one.

Gosh. You’re debating a super cheap trip a minute ago, yelling at each other and bantering sass—how did it escalate to this?

After a minute of babbling, she’s still jittery, eyes are everywhere but you. The once tight grips on your shoulders are now shaking weakly, so you pulled her into a friendly hug and rub circles on her back, gently remind her to take deep breathes and hold her until she decides to pull away.

Once she does, you made her look at you in the eyes. Her eyes are a little wet, with no tears running down to her cheek, but still you wipe her cheek with your thumbs and held her face gently, “Look, Nad, I appreciate your worry, I really do, but I’ve already made my decision, okay?” you wait for her to nods before continues, “I know it’s super suspicious because it’s super cheap, but considering the situation, when would such a chance come to me again? When could again I go to a week itinerary for less than $100? We gotta snatch the chances before someone else take them, Nad. You told me this, remember?” 

“If the chance is also could kill you, someone else definitely could take it,” she replied calmly, and you grin as you shook your head, “C’mon, Nad—There are another 99 guests on that ship too, and if anything happens to us, people would start looking, right?”

Nadia looks at you tiredly, “Your head is so strong, if a coconut falls on your head, it would crack itself open instead of killing you.”

You laughed at her remarks, “Look, how about this—let’s go to the shore together tomorrow. If you don’t like their ship, I’ll cancel everything and we drive straight back to the city. How’s that sound to you?”

She was silent again for a moment before finally agreed, and an hour later, your suitcase is packed tidily.

* * *

 

The sun shines brightly, and the dry wind blows like crazy. The sea waves’ noises could be heard from all over the shore, and the seagulls are flocking on posts, silent and uninterested to all because no one has any edible material on their hands right now. It’s a good day to apply thick sunscreen on your skin if you’re planning to spend the day on the shore or the beach, but that’s not what you after today.

“This is not a $40 ship.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Both of you are hurting your neck for craning it too long, but you could care less for that. The ship that supposed to carry you to Hilda Land is as big as the Silver Galapagos cruiser ship, only this one is colored in bright blue, white and red instead. You’ve had checked every other ship, multiply, but this is the only ship to Hilda Land. Most of the guests are already crowding near the gangway system, but you two are still busy to comprehend _how the fuck this cruise ship like this costs $40—_

 “Hello!” someone called from afar, but none of you bother to turn away from the big ass ship to answer the ambiguous call. That 'someone' called again, and this time, that someone also tapped your shoulders from behind.

‘That someone’ apparently is a 6 ft. tall guy, with flaming red hair that reaches his neck, sharp face and sun-kissed skin that mostly covered in a white uniform. He stood with straightly, one hand behind his back and the other saluted you.

“Captain Hot Rod, Ma’am, (Sir/Ma’am), on your service,” he informed you as he bows professionally, French-accent thick in his voice. “I believe one of you is one of our guests, yes? Because the ship is about to leave in fifteen minutes, and we’re still looking for the last guest before leaving.”

“O-oh! That’s me! That’s me!” you hurriedly showed him your ticket. Captain Hot Rod inspected it for a while, then he smiled again as he gave it back to you, “Well, (Sir/Ma’am), if you still have anything to take care of, I suggest you to be little more fast on it because as you see,” he stepped aside, showing you an empty gangway, “the other guests have already on the ship, probably are lining up for lunch, and if you’re late, I’m afraid you’ll miss your chance to taste our special seafood dish.”

Suddenly, a white noise buzzed from Captain Hot Rod’s behind. It was a radio, and once he answered it, the broken voice from the other side is telling him to get ready for his post right that instant.

“Apparently my ship needs me now,” he informed you as he put the radio back to its place, “We will see each other again on the ship, yes?”

“Yes,” Nadia answered for you, “Just a little goodbye with my friend, and they will good to go. Have a good day, Captain.”

The Captain tipped his hat and walks his way onto the ship. When he was out of the eyesight, you turned smugly to Nadia, “Well?”

She slapped your arm lightly, “Don’t get too smug. Never judge a book by its cover; remember that. Besides—Captain ‘Hot Rod’? What kind of name is that?”

You rolled your eyes, “C’mon, Nad, what are you worrying now again? That’s probably his code name or something—who are we to judge their marketing strategy? Look at this ship, Nad. And plus, look at the captain! Have you ever seen anything as blue as his eyes?”

“I’ve seen the sky,” she muttered matter-of-factly, reaching for something in her purse as you fiddle with your suitcase.

She’s probably looking for some extra-spicy pepper-spray to give you to arm yourself, like the last time she did when she knew you’re about to went home later than usual. But instead of a can of pepper, she handed you something that looked awfully similar to those NOKIA brick-phones from her purse, only this only is slightly bigger and thicker, with a long antenna on the top.

“Whoa, Nad,” you whistled, inspecting the heavy communication device with your eyes and fingers, “I never knew you collect old stuff like this! Why the antenna’s so long?”

“That’s a satellite phone, (Y/N). Here’s the charger and the holster,” she shoved the other two into your suitcase while you’re busy with the phone. “A satellite phone? Thanks, but why?”

“My dad gave it to me on my 20th birthday; luckily, I never need to use it,” she clamped her purse with her armpit to show you how to use the phone better, “Hit this button to turn it on, and hold this one for a while to turn it off. It’s quite big, but it’s waterproof and you can use the holster to hide it inside your cloth—“

“Wow! Wow! Nad, slow down!” you held your hands up, still processing whatever things she told you about the phone before, “Satellite phone is very cool, but is it really necessary? I’m going for a vacation, not an undercover in Russia, right?”

Nadia fell silence and she squints her eyes meanly at you until you felt stupid for interrupting her, “When you’re out there,” she hissed, “desperate for any familiar face and contact as you sink deeper into some shit trouble you somehow gotten yourself into like ususal, thinking ‘Why the fuck did I even signed up for this’ and running away from God-knows-what or who, you’d thank me for this phone. Look at that ship, dumbass; there's no way in hell, that ship only cost $40. No fucking way; even kayaks cost higher than that. I'm telling you, there's something fishy about the whole thing, but here you are, all packed and suited to go. Now shut the fuck up, and listen, okay? Because when things gone wrong, you'd thank me. This phone can connect your calls through the satellite, so distance wouldn’t have any effect on this. However, your calls could only receive from an open area, so make sure you’re not inside of any building when you use this. Got it? Got it? Okay, good. Use it when something bad happens—but if everything went smoothly, I demand some pricey souvenirs from that island, you hear?”

You waved to her all the way you climbed the gangway, and Nadia’s waving scarf is the last thing you see before the door pulled up.

 


	3. The HIGH HEELS

 

The door was closed with a muffled ‘click’, and you found yourself on the mouth of a narrow hallway. The wall of this ship is painted in pure white, matched with the polished wood floor, glistening under a line of lights on the ceiling. An eerie excitement crawls on your spine as you noticed few similarities between the ship’s hallway and Titanic’s. “Let’s just hope this one wouldn’t sink,” you muttered to no one, laughing nervously at your own joke.

There’s no one here except you, and when the ship’s engine came to live, you only have so much time to hold on the door’s emergency bar handle while clutching the brick-like phone onto yourself, leg hooked around your suitcase as the ship sails away from the shore.

Thankfully, the door stays locked after how hard you pulled it to prevent your own downfall. When everything is calmer and less wobbly, you clench your suitcase between your thighs to keep it on the spot as you put the phone into it, along with its charger and holster, all while still holding onto the same bar. After you’re sure they’re safe and sound in there, you traced the hallway until you met a T-intersection. Following your instinct, you turned right.

(Because it’s the ‘right’ way.)

There’s a closed door at the end of the right turn. It’s not locked when you pulled the handle; much to your joy, however, what you see behind the door wasn’t the infamous restaurant your Captain told you earlier. Instead, you found a big room. It’s big enough to have a row of five speedboats inside, and each of speedboats is in the size of compact cars, colored in bright red and purple paint. The left wall is actually the portable sliding board, stiffly stood as a wall because its gate is locked with a heavy padlock.

There’s no food in this room, so you left the room shortly after that, hurriedly walks towards the other path, to another closed door. This one is unlocked too and had to be pushed instead of pulled, but the handle is making creaking noises and the door is stuck and hard to move, almost like someone closed it too hard the last time. You repeatedly hitting the door with your shoulder, and it barely moves.

Five minutes later, your shoulder is throbbing, and the door had only opened by an inch.

“I don’t have time for this,” you told the door with an angry huff as if it was its fault that you’re the last one to go on board. You have only on this ship for ten minutes, and you’re already gone from an energetic, happy guest into a sweating, hungry guest who now is pissed off on non-sentient furniture on a ship, but you could care less about—you want your special seafood, and you’re getting it this lunch. Ain’t no rusty door would hold you back from your lunch.

You put your suitcase aside, taking a good distance from the door. You stopped at five meters away and prepare your sawhorse. _If this won’t work, I want a refund._

You zoomed with all your strength towards the door, aiming your shoulder at it, and jumped on your strongest step. You clenched your teeth, closed your eyes shut and prepare for the impact—what you didn’t prepare for, however, is someone from the other side of the door pulled it open for you and then,

  1. The poor person fell onto the floor
  2. YOU fell onto the person you zoomed to
  3. There’s 99% chance the person would suffer brain damage from how loud he hit the floor



You knew it wasn’t a door you hit when you closed your eyes because doors don’t feel like tailored suit and shirt. Still, you can’t help but gasp once you realized you’re landing on a human instead of the floor.

“I’m so sorry!” you exclaimed once you have unlatched yourself from the person’s chest, sore shoulder forgotten in panic. You helped him up, and the person (a man) groans as he stands on his legs, “It’s fine, (Sir/Ma’am). You’re not the first to try ramming up that door,” he said, through a metal mask, as he sits up, “I already told our engineers thousand times about that door, but none of them listened. Your action is completely understandable, (Sir/Ma’am). Just give this clumsy waiter a moment to rub his nose.”

The man slipped his hands into his mask without taking it off, jiggling noises followed every of his movement. His mask, you noticed, has modern design, painted in glistening metallic grey and red visor on the eye line, something that seemed to be a ‘Star Wars’ or ‘Star Trek’ property, but the person himself is dressed in waiter suit—dark purple vest, dark purple pants, white collar and purple tie.

The color of choice made you quirk an eyebrow, but then you see ‘STEVE’ was written on a nametag on his vest.

“Huh,” you murmured. “The Captain Hot Rod uses code name but wears a normal suit, while the crew wears a mask but uses a normal name?”

“Oh? Captain Hot Rod?” Steve asked back, now had fully stand up, dusting off his pants absentmindedly, “No, it was—“

But then his words stopped in midsentence as if he just realized what he is talking about. There’s a hesitant twitch within his body language, but it’s gone as Steve straightened his back, standing on his full height and squared his shoulders.

“I almost forgot,” he said instead, walking past the door to pick up your suitcase, “Captain Hot Rod sent me here to pick you up, but here I am, wasting both of our times, talking about nonsense. This way, (Sir/Ma’am), I’ll show you the cabin deck.”

Steve’s long legs moved fast despite the fact he’s dragging a suitcase in the narrow hallway which is almost touching his head, and the jiggling noises came from a bunch of keys, hooked on his pants’ back pocket. You’ve to jog to catch up with him, “Weren’t you about to say something about the Captain? What is it?”

“Nothing you should be concerning, (Sir/Ma’am). Just one of the rules and regulations I suddenly remember,” he answered without looking at you, head facing straight ahead. “And if we could reach the dining room in ten minutes, you’d be just in time for our Co-Captain’s performance,” he added in more excited tone.

You chuckled at the information. “The Co-Captain’s performance? What, he’s gonna do a sailor dance on stage?”

“If it’s Captain Hot Rod, he’d sing five sailor songs too while dancing,” Steve’s pace never slowed as he silently walks through corridors where his head almost touched the ceiling, taking left turn twice, and keep walking (jogging, for you) until you two stepped into a bigger hallway. The red carpet covered the entire floor, and doors are lined up on the left and right side, each with chronological numbers, “But I’m talking about our Co-Captain, and trust me, you would love him once you see his performance. May I see your ticket, (Mr/Ms/Mx) ….?”

“(L/N),” you replied, handing him the slightly crumpled piece of paper, “But just call me (Y/N), though. (Mr/Ms/Mx) made me feels old.”

Steve only nods, but you can see him smiling through the mask as he reads your ticket. Then, he pushed your suitcase further, reading the plat on each door, and stopped right before the last one in the corner. Steve’s gloved hand reached the ring of keys, and after a moment of selective picking, he gave you the one with ‘F16’ carved on it, along with the tiny keys he linked it with.

“Remember; ten minutes!” he said cheerily, tapping an invisible watch on his wrist.

There’s a pang of jealousy in your chest when you see a $40 ship’s room has better quality than your own back at your home. It’s not so big nor is it small— about 4 x 5 m wide, colored in white and bright brown. There’s a single bed on the right corner and a tall closet on the left. The window in the middle of your room serves you a view straight from the open sea, and the writing desk and chair is a good place to sit and enjoy to view.

But there’s no time to admire the sea right now. You change your clothes quickly, combed your hair, and tucked your own phone into your pants pocket. For a moment, just before you reached the doorknob, you considered to put on your lucky necklace and hook up the satellite phone onto your pants, but then you go ‘Nah’ and turned the doorknob open.

* * *

The restaurant on this ship has the same luxury to restaurants that usually cost $400-$1.000 per guest. It’s large, as large as the sports hall you used to go to back in high school, with white walls decorated with golden floral pattern and not-so-unnecessarily-big crystal lamp hanging from the ceiling. Each table is placed in the strategic distance so the guests could enjoy their personal space, but still able to chat with another guest at the different table.  At the first glance, this place is a modern version of Titanic’s, but simpler, yet still as magnificent.

When you arrived, the throbbing spot on your shoulder had been long gone, and Steve led you to a table with one chair (each table has four chairs) in the front rows; the only empty table at the moment, but you’re not complaining, because that table has the perfect spot to see the stage clearly.

A while later Steve came back, talking in a more nervous tone that it’s turned out to be there is a change in the plan, and the dancing show is delayed instead performed like what he promised earlier.

“So what?” you asked, “The show is delayed, that’s all, right?”

“ No, (Y/N), this is not all right. As waiters, it is our job to do precisely as what we’ve ordered to, but something happened. The other guests had no idea about the performance, but you do, and you must have already waiting for it. But don’t worry; I’ve explained the whole situation to my friend,” he added again, in less nervous tone, “As an apology, we will have your dish as the first to serve.”

You tried to stop him and tell him that’s okay, you don’t need special treatment just because there’s a miscalculation the plan, _hey, listen to me, where are you going_ -but Steve’s had already gone into the sea of fancy tables, another waiter, with two lidded plates on each hand, walked towards you.

“Please forgive our co-worker,” the new waiter said, in a tone that has more professionalism than Steve’s. “Steve tends to be chatty and spilling nonsense to everyone—he’s not exactly the brightest among us.” When he set down both of the plates in an appropriate distance from you, you can see the ‘ROBERT’ nametag on his vest.

“That’s fine, really. No one is perfect,” you told him, but Robert shook his head, “We didn’t spend years of training just to fail our guest, (Sir/Ma’am). Our chef, Bumblebee, apologized for his clumsy behavior too, and sent a special dessert for you.”

As he said that, Robert opens the lid of the second plate. It reveals a cute bowl of chocolate pudding, with orange pieces arranged around the top, held on their place by a small ring of white chocolate around it, resembling a tiny golden crown on a brown pillow.

You’re just about to point out how lovely the pudding is when Robert lifts up the lid of your main dish, and the smells of properly smoked fish mix perfectly with the smells of chili pepper instantly filled the air.

“Oh my god...” you moaned, filling your nostril with the heavenly scent of the smoked fish. “Smoked Spicy Tuna, (Sir/Ma’am, with a special mix of spices fresh from Indonesia, Java Island,” Robert told you, his chest bloated in pride, “our Chef’s newest recipe. May I suggest a glass of white wine to accompany your dish?”

You fished out your phone, unlocked it and ’11:35’ flashed on the screen. “That sounds tempting, but isn’t this too early for wine? How about something non-alcoholic? I’m in the mood for something tropical.”

Robert bows in acknowledgment and leaves. He came back later, less than a minute, with a tall crystal glass of sweet mango juice.

The white wine Robert suggested earlier may have something to do with taste-enhancer or something, but your smoked tuna is just as fine with your juice, creating a perfect orchestra of the cold and warm in your mouth. It feels like an orgasm for taste bud, and this is truly worth of hitting a door open by ramming yourself into it.

“Anything else you I can get you, (Sir/Ma’am)?” Robert asked again suddenly when you are about forgetting his existence besides you.

“Uh, I think I have enough,” you replied, looking at your juice, smoked tuna, and pudding. “Oh! And tell Chef Bumblebee I really like the orange-chocolate combination,” you added, gesturing the pudding with your fork, “It’s a rare taste, and I love the crown shape he made.”

Robert left after another humble bow, and since you’re sat alone in the front rows, no one can see you have a very special dessert while they only have tuna and wine. Though you feel bad for Steve, and any other guest, really, the special treatment made you feel _super_ special—like, look at all of these; you sat in the front row, at a perfect distance from stage to watch everything from your seat, your dish was the first to deliver, and you’re the only one with dessert! What was Nadia worrying so much about?

_Speaking of which…_

You looked down to your half-finished tuna, and its dead eye looked back. Maybe you can ask the chef to have got a boxed one? Nadia loves seafood, but she rarely has the money or time to buy or cook any. She’d love this.

The orange-chocolate pudding is a perfect finishing touch to a seafood dish. Though you mourned the smoked tuna you finished too fast, the pudding’s flavor felt like refreshing your mouth, and the mango juice only making it better. Your mouth would never taste anything better than this, you know it.

_“Enjoying ourselves, aren’t we?”_

Suddenly, the room goes dark. Then a beam of light shot from the ceiling, irradiating a guy you have never seen before on the stage.

The crowd cheers upon his question. He chuckles into the microphone, and your face heats up. Somehow, you can’t look away from him.

That guy is ethnically ambiguous, you decides after staring, and he has slicked black hair styled in undercut hairstyle, pale skin contrast with the dark shirt he wore, with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The shirt itself has two unbuttoned buttons at the top, giving you a clear view of his neckline, and his red vest and red pants make him looks even more intimidating, even from your seat.

He talks again after the crowd calmed down, introducing himself as ‘Knock Out’ with the same velvety voice, and _damn right_ he is one knock-out type. “But you could also call me ‘Doctor Knock Out’, because believe or not, I AM a medic.”

Some rows in the back wolf-whistled loudly to him, and others calling him ‘Doctor’ with the highest pitch they could manage. Knock Out put a finger on his lips, shushed smoothly onto the microphone. The noise, again, died down instantly, and Knock Out continues, “And while I would love to be your center of attention, I have nothing to entertain you except my looks and voice.”

Someone in the back is asking for a strip dance. The crowd agrees.

Knock Out laughed, and his laughs reminds you of something beautiful yet forbidden to touch. Like the one Eve and Adam ate before they were exiled.

“I’d love to, Sweetsp—hearts, as this beauty is free for you to enjoy, but my supervisor would throw a fit if he knows I’m taking over the stage instead of the real performers today. Yes, my dearest guests, a performance—as a token of our gratitude for your presence on this ship. Please welcome,” cue the curtain behind Knock Out lifted when he extended his arm to it, “our gracious Co-Captain and his amazing dancers—STARSCREAM AND THE VEHICONS!”

A group of men jumped onto the stage from the curtain. Their leader in the front, Starscream, wore the most scandalous stiletto you have ever seen in your life—and you finally knew why Steve so excited about this performance.

 

 

 

 

 

*Knock Out was imaged after breakdownsbuttlights’ humanized Knock Out on Tumblr. Check out their arts—they are amazing!


	4. You Should've Gone with The Others

The music they chose is one you've never heard before, but you're not complaining. In a dark room where light strobes are shooting rays of rainbow everywhere, the music fit perfectly. It's an upbeat music, one that constantly demands you to pay attention to it and makes you want to drive above the speed limit to places you never think to visit. Every spin, jump, kick, and march-up the dancers do is flawlessly synchronized, and the Co-Captain is living up his (code) name. You turned around to check out how much are the others enjoying this, and between the sea of waving hands and heads, you caught a glimpse of a waiter you suspect as Steve aggressively waving a napkin tied on a long stick around, all while screaming ‘I LOVE YOU STARSCREAM' despite the numbers of other waiters trying to calm him down. They shouldn't blame him for that though—when you give people an MC with a voice a sinner and a dancer with legs that out-of-this-world, you shouldn't be surprised on how hyped up everyone becomes. Every single guest in the room is on their feet, jumping and dancing along the beat although none of you could rival the dancer's movement, and midday lunch somehow turned into a crazy Saturday night's part. Pity, it didn't take long to become a chaos.

It started with someone push you aside from behind violently as if he was saving you from a speeding car. You didn't lose your balance too much, thankfully, but you tripped over hard enough to knock everything on your table off and the leftovers of your lunch and drinks fell onto the floor. The blaring music is loud enough to mute the crashing glass and ceramic plate, but the room wasn't dark enough to blind you from the spilled fish bones and mango juice.

That alone is enough to ruin your mood, not to mention the throbbing spot on your waist, and you're seriously considering running after that guy to ask what his problem was. But then you see that guy is now climbing up the stage stairs in wobbly steps, and other guests are trailing behind him. You learned the lesson and moved aside, watching the following guests are moving weirdly as they climb the stage like a bunch of starved zombies from a safe distance.

"Whoa, whoa, everyone!" Knock Out's voice boomed from the speakers, but the person is nowhere in your sight. His voice is velvety, as usual, but clearly, he was a little shaken as well. "Okay, guys, that's enough. Please leave the dancers alone and enjo—hey! What're y—Oomph! Se-Security-ow, frag off!"

Turns out the MC was talking at the end of the room, and you've only managed to spot his desperate waving hand before a pack of guests pounced on him all at the same time. The view of MC Knock Out is literally being engulfed by a swamp of human would look so comical if not for the fact that this is happening right now, right here, right before your eyes, and you're watching someone who's about to get gangbanged in the public.

Is this really happening? You're on a ship, sailing the sea to have an itinerary on a tropical island. There's no way things had already gone to south so fast, right?

Suddenly, your senses are numbing, and your brain slowed down, like when your mind decided to stray off in the middle of boring class. Glasses and plates fell onto the floor as the impatient guests make their way to reach their target, scents of food and alcohol filled the room. There are some of the guests that haven't move from their chair at all, and just like you, they're also confused and do nothing but watch things happen around them. The taste of smoked tuna climbed up your throat, up to your tongue but you swallowed it again, resulting a bitter bile in your stomach. You can hear the noises, the hoarse voice of Co-Captain Starscream telling someone (or everyone) to back the fuck off, the loud pleas from Knock Out to not ruin his $500 vest and pants, and the sound of music in the background, as its fast rhythm matched with the whole chaos—but all of these noises sound far away, and your eyes are not sure which one to focus on at the same time and you can't think nor can you understand all of these.

(You think you actually have an idea, but your brain refused to read that idea like your elementary school teacher refused to hear that it wasn't your fault that you got sick and skipped one of her classes. Just round one of the grades and you'd out of her sight in no time, why won't she understand that?!)

The music abruptly stopped and someone flipped the light switch on. Some of the waiters and three bulky-looking guys emerged from the backstage, split up in two groups, and each group is trying to pry the drunk guests off their crew, while the rest are quickly seizing the sober guests, who haven't got up from their chairs to the exit door on your far left. One of the waiters who was escorting the guests accidentally looked up and his visor met your eyes, and suddenly, the same waiter is jogging up to you.

Only when he tugs your arm a little harsh your brain finally cleared up. "I'm fine—I'm fine," you told him, releasing your arm from his fingers. It was Steve, you realized, and he escorts you to the exit door, pushing you to walk a little faster while these drunken guests are busy with the other crew.

"What happened to them, Steve?" you asked, still a little dazed, "We were having so much fun with the performance, what caused this?"

"Honestly? I don't know," he replied, and if your brain was on its top condition, it'd notice the uncomfortable gestures Steve made while he was talking, "Maybe it's the new wine Wheeljack made, y'know, that white wine? Probably our Managers liked it enough to order more and give it to you guys."

"'Wheeljack'?"

"Our Engineer," pushed you gently so you lined up right behind the last guy of the crowd, "He's also our mechanic, and pretty good at what he does, but he also has a strong taste in alcohol, just like our Managers. My suggestion? Never drink anything he gives you. If you ever need anything safe to drink, just go to bartender Breakdown."

That's a unique code-name for a bartender, but you nodded anyway.

Someone else called Steve for help, and he bolted straight away to the aid. Now you're alone in the crowd that slowly exited the restaurant, leaving the whole mess behind, into the open deck with the clear sky and sparkling blue sea ahead. However, just when you're only five steps away from the exit door, a shrill shriek jolted your bones out of your skin.

You turned around to see what kind of banshee managed to get dragged into this mess, and you see Co-Captain Starscream is being cornered to the wall, by five women at the same time, armed only by his stilettos.

 _Bah_ , you thought, returning your attention to the outside view, _someone else would get him, eventually_.

But it also didn't slip out of your attention that one of the bulky guys are too busy saving Knock Out's ass from a living pile of drunk zombies, while the other two are helping the dancer to get out of the swarming humans. None of the waiters (not even Steve) are aware of Starscream's current condition, and someone would notice him likely after he lost his underwear to those ladies.

Based on this theory, your legs stopped in their tracks.

In times like this, your impulsive habit is your superpower—because it's always your body that moved before your brain knows what to do. Which is a good thing; because if your brain were aware of your body's plan, it'd be too busy giving you speech on how it sounds so stupid and would make you look stupid instead of giving you a better idea. So you zoomed to the ladies like how you zoomed to that door in the hallway, knocking three of them with all your weight onto the floor, American-football style.

"Run!" you yelled to Co-Captain Starscream, and he doesn't need to be told twice. The last two got away in the last seconds, and for the love of God, these women are fast although they're drunk enough to try to fuck someone out of their consent, and one of them clawed your face with a set of perfectly manicured fingernails. You kicked her in the stomach as an answer, and it didn't take long for another one pulled your hair as hard as someone would do to weed.

Tears filled on the corners of your eyes, but you're too angry and pissed to be scared of the situation now. You reach for the arm and spin yourself free, but her friend jumped on you and you fall face first onto the floor. Sitting on your sweating back, she strangles you while you're trying to get up, and the lack of oxygen, with an addition of her nails digging into your skin, made your legs gave up on the first try.

Your hands are not, though. The coldness of the floor motivates you to reach for her face and jabbed her eyes, but her friend kicked you in the face. She missed, mostly, but the tip sliced one of your eyes and the pain was enough to send buzzing noise into your ears.

You screamed in crazed anger, jabbing the eyes of the woman on your back even harder until she let go. She does, but it didn't stop her from trying to stab you with her heels just before you got up from the floor. You dismissed the burning feeling on your neck and reddening eye as you kick her in the chest this time, and switched fast enough to kick the other away. The one you kicked last, the one with tennis shoes, fell and her head hit the stage, but you could care less about that because the first one has already on her feet and is on her way to pounce on you again.

The only defense you managed to pull is holding your arm up before your face, but even with that, your body is back again lying on the floor. She was screaming the whole time she sat on your stomach while clawing your neck and face, probably trying to skin you alive with her nails, but not focused enough to maintain her balance on you when you lift your ass off the floor and hooked her head with your legs.

She wobbled, for a second, and that's all you need to wiggle free from her weight, throwing her off your body. You kneed her face before she got up again, but then a guy, one you've never seen nor have you ever punched before, joined your little club and punched you in the face.

Crowd behavior at its finest, you bitterly thought as more people coming to you with violent intent in their eyes.

A hard hit was delivered to your stomach by a table leg (how did they get it in the first place, you'll never know) before you could even get on your knees. A very big, calloused hand grabs your ankle and throws your body, sending you flying across the room. You landed on a chair (you think) and destroyed it into pieces. As you lay on the floor, the pain finally announces it presence on every inch of your body, your face and mostly your stomach, blooming like a garden of Morning Glory in the morning. You coughed up and blood spluttered from your mouth, along with a teeth and saliva. Your body begs to rest, and ironically, your brain knows it's a bad idea to stay down and do nothing, screaming orders for your limbs to drag your body out of the restaurant right this instant.

But none of your moving limbs responded to that command. Your eyelids suddenly increased their weights, and the floor is cooling your heated body down. There go the voices again, just like when you went into trance mode, but those voices are strangely similar to your name, and other words your brain too tired to understand. Your face is facing the ceiling now, and you blink slowly, noticing how nice the golden hue they use to paint it with.

You blink again, and again until your eyelids are too heavy to lift, and your mind finally gave up.

 

 


	5. Doctor's Problems

A headache is always the better alarm clock than the alarm clock itself. If an alarm clock goes off and starts screaming, you just have to punch the snooze button and go back to sleep. A headache, on the other hand, works better—it’d pound your brain from the inside until you felt like cracking your skull open to take your brain out. There’s no snooze button for a headache; you gotta get up and find a pill for it until it died down on its own.

That’s why you’re immediately awake after the first opening of your eyes, followed by an ache on the back of your head, the back of your left jaw, your right eye, stomach, back, and leg. In fact, you’re so awake, you announced it to the world with a chain of pitiful loud groan.

 “That’s what you got for playing hero,” someone told you bitterly. It hurts, oh god it hurts when you turn your neck around to see who said that, but you still did it to make sure your head is not making up voices.

There’s a man sitting on a chair beside the bed you’re on. He looks old, with that wrinkled face and greying hairstreak, but the frameless glasses he wore made he looks sharp and smart. The white lab coat he wore is a contrast to his orange shirt and black suspenders pants—all he needs is a matching bowtie, and he probably would look like a grumpier cousin of Bill Nye.

You two are the only one in this room, surely the voice before was his, not to mention how the flat tone would match his traits, but that ‘doctor’ didn’t seem to acknowledge your presence near him, as it looks like the clipboard on his hand is more interesting than you, so you averted your eye from him (because your other eye is currently covered by a cotton eye patch) and expand your focus, despite a throbbing headache you’re having right now.

This entire room is unsurprisingly white—white curtains, white floor, white beds, and white walls— just like how a medical ward supposed to be. This is not a big room, nor it’s small because it could contain six separated beds and still wide enough for three brown closets, two tables, and a chair the doctor is currently sitting on. The other five beds are lined beside yours; two on your left and three more on the opposite side of yours. Their empty and tidy condition told you that you’re the only patient in this room.

A metal trolley stood by your bed, and it has your phone and clothes on its top. Only then you realized that you’re wearing a patient dress, with no underwear and a blanket is covering your hip to your feet.

Cold hand grips your heart, but the sensation is gone quickly after the toes you wiggled moved under the blanket, denying your fear of the worst scenario. Your body sure feels painful, but you are grateful to find out the rest of your body is still intact without any strange, rotting wounds that require mutilation to prevent the spreading of infection.

The wind blew the hair on top of your head, gently stroking your hair. That’s how you knew there’s an opened window behind you, right above your bed headboard. You peeked through it as much as you could with a body that feels like it was flattened by a mammoth, and you see the peak of trees and land, also the body of the sea from afar, blue and sparkling under the bright tropical sky. Clearly, you’re not on that luxurious ship anymore.

“Where am I?”

“Heaven.”

That doctor talked again in an even more cynical tone, bored eyes peered through frameless glasses for a second before they’re back to the clipboard again. You’d be offended if Heaven truly looked like this, “I don’t believe you.”

“I sure am hoping your logic worked that well before you joined that fight,” he replied, voice dripping with sass as he puts the clipboard aside, stood up and walks to you with the un-friendliest doctor face you might ever see.

“Lie down—I need to check your ribs.”

You’re shocked, but say nothing in return as his (surprisingly) delicate and soft hands feeling your sides, right on the part of the skin that covered your lungs thoroughly. “I thought Knock Out was the medic.”

“One of the medics,” he told you, “He’s a little busy with something else right now, sorry to disappoint.”

He pressed a particular spot that made you shout in pain. The only reaction he made was an arched eyebrow before he pressed it again to make sure that’s the painful spot and write it down.

“You shouldn’t be surprised,” he said in a tone you usually use to scold kindergarten children, “You joined a drunken group fight and were thrown across the room—didn’t Steve had have already put you on the exiting crowd?”

“Impulsive thought,” you replied with gritted teeth, trying not to cry in front of this old man, “No one noticed the Co-Captain except me, so I helped him out.”

“And then you felt not being heroic enough, and proceed to fight the other guests to save the day?”

You snorted and shook your head, “Not that stupid, Doc. They attacked me first—I merely trying to get away, and they just couldn’t—wouldn’t let me be, okay? What’s your code name, by the way, huh? ‘Scalpel’?”

The doctor’s greenish blue eyes stared at you again, and this time it lasted for a while as if he was trying to tell you how offended he is by that name telepathically. It didn’t work, “It’s Ratchet.”

“Hat-Hatchet?”

“Only if you want to be hit with one.”

You wanted to ask more but you don’t want to have a hatchet flying to your direction so you shut your mouth, as Ratchet is clearly not interested in conversation with an idiot who just woke up from a drunken fight on a cruise ship.

Ratchet a good doctor, you figured out after a series of physical checking and nerve testing, and also a professional medical officer and a war veteran—you could tell that from the varies of old scars his sleeve accidentally reveals when he checked your stomach and knees. He just has this bad habit to give away his opinion in the bitterest way he could think of at the moment.

Ratchet was listing things you shouldn’t do in a month to ensure your body healed in the best way when someone knocked the door. He told you to stay on the bed while the gets the door as if you could flee away by the window at any moment.

You can’t see who he was talking to from the spot you’re on, but you can hear 3 different voices talking almost in the same time, and that Ratchet is getting more and more frustrated as they talk.

“…just a moment—shouldn’t be that—“

"Oh, you're a medic now?"

“We just want to make sure they’re okay, Ratchet.”

That conversation ended with Ratchet throwing his arm up to the ceiling in desperation so hard, you almost hoping he’d throw away the clipboard too. But that flat thing still hangs on tight in the embrace of his fingers when one of the new guests apologized to him before Ratchet stormed off the room, and two breathtakingly gorgeous men walked into the room, straight to your direction and honestly, it’s a little scary.

One of them is a tall, wide-shoulder with blue eyes and slicked-back black hair, wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. He has a square jaw, James-Bond eyebrows, and pursed lips, but the expression he wore is clearly friendlier than Ratchet’s.

His companion, though, is slightly different. His face is filled with scars as if his height wasn’t intimidating enough. He has long grey hair tied into a ponytail that reaches his neck, pale skin and red eyes that confirmed his albino traits. This guy is covered in dark grey suit and unbuttoned purple shirt, just like Knock Out’s, only his chest is much bigger his spec formed a cleavage, hidden under the buttoned part of his shirt.

The only significant thing between them, aside from their gender and their level of intimidating vibes, is that both of them are holding a bouquet of tropical flower.

“The best ones we could found to express our regret for what happened on the ship, (Sir/Ma’am),” the raven one said with a sheepish smile, as he and his friend place them on your lap.

The bouquets are spreading sweet scents all over the domain of your bed, and your gratitude was stuttered. While you try to balance each bouquet on your lap, the men stood near the foot of your bed, in a stance that usually you see in military personnel when they lined up.

“We apologized for the incident, (Sir/Ma’am), and for the injuries you’re having,” the man in grey suit repeated grimly, clearing his throat before he speaks again, “The alcohol turned out to be quite strong for several guests, but we can assure you it won’t happens again.”

He said that without breaking eye contact with you the whole time—as if he was trying to see through your eyes for the answer of his apologize. You laughed nervously, shrugging your shoulders in a weak attempt to reduce his pressuring stare, “It’s... it’s not like I was purely innocent, anyway. I mean, half of—half of the stuff that happened to me was my own fault. Impulsive decision, y’know? Bad habit, can’t get rid of it—sorry, I’m—I’m babbling,” this is not what you supposed to say; please stop staring, “My point is—is that I have my own mistakes, and uh, I—I should have got the guard instead—I’m not exactly a good… fighter.”

It’s hard to not to babbles when two men with all alpha traits are staring you with full interest after you’ve been comforted by your doctor’s less intimidating stare. You swallowed your saliva and try your best to not to fidgeting under their stares.

“It’s very kind of you, (Y/N),” the man in grey replied again, sternly this time, straightening his posture like a commander talking about his men’s mistakes and how he’s going to make them pay for it, “But I and Optimus had already planned this project for years. All crew and personnel had been trained to give the best service since day one, and still, we manage to have one our guest injured. However, you don’t have to worry about anything; I am myself would make sure the failed waiters would receive a suited punish—”

The other manager, Optimus, faked a cough and flashed a disapproval glare to his friend. The grey one stopped immediately, and his partner took over the talking duty, “What Megatron trying to say is that… this incident did not suppose to happen, (Mr/Ms/Mx. L/N), but it did, and now you’re suffering from it. Have you ever in need of anything, please, do not hesitate to tell us—we’d be happy to oblige.”

Optimus’ peaceful speech was interrupted by the screeching noise from your phone. You snatched the small device to see what makes it scream so loud out, and it turned out that your phone is trying to tell you about a notification; Itinerary Day I: Exploring the Island.

The date was set for today, and the time is an hour earlier than the scheduled time. Immediately, you kicked the blanket off yourself and scrambled to get your clothes. Optimus caught you in time, caging you with his muscular arm to prevent you moving too fast, "Is something wrong, (Mr/Ms/Mx. L/N)?"“

"No, uh, it's just-isn’t there a trip plan for today? You know, the full day trip to all over the island? Could you tell the others to wait a little longer, please? I still need to change my clothes and stuff.”

Megatron was the first to blink, and Optimus, again, glanced at him uneasily before he confirmed your question, “Yes… we could. However, considering your condition right now, (Mr/Ms/Mx. L/N), I’m afraid I cannot let you join the other guest for today’s trip.”

You arched both of your eyebrows, putting on your best-offended face (despite his perfectly shaped face is only ten inches away from yours) as you ask him again, “Yo-You literally just—just said you’d be happy to oblige my needs, Mr. Optimus.”

“Yes, I very much am, (Mr/Ms/Mx. L/N). But you just awaken from being blacked out after a fight, I’m not sure you’re in top conditi—“

“It’s a _trip_ , Mr. Optimus," you interrupted him out loud, and Optimus immediately stopped, just like Megatron after he faked a cough.

They both are staring at you now, and you decided to just roll with it, "A-and the marketing team told me the only thing the guests are going to do for the whole trip is to sit in the vehicles and-and admire everything this island could offer for us. I’m sure I’m in top condition to  _sit_  for several hours.”

“I don’t think our medic would approve this trip, (Mr/Ms/Mx. L/N).”

It always feel good when you have the upper hand of the situation. “One of your medics,” you told him as you barely hold your smirk, “Where’s Dr. Knock Out?”

Optimus pursed his lips tightly, while Megatron stared at you like how the actors in the ‘Office’ would stare at the camera.

 

* * *

 

 

The hotel they built on this island is just as big and as luxurious as the ship they picked up you with. You were in hurry, but you had managed to see that white and gold are the dominant color of this building. Every door you’ve gone through has at least two sculptures of mermen, and once you’re out, you found out this hotel was built almost exactly in the forest of the island. The closest trees are six meters away from the hotel’s outer part, and in that area is where five traveling buses lined up, waiting for the last guest, which is you and your newest assigned personal nurse; Knock Out.

“I still can’t believe you told them that, I mean, sorry it’s just—Ha!” Knock Out wheezed as he talks. It wasn’t the sinning laugh your heard when he was the MC on the ship, but who are you to complain about someone’s laughing noise?

“No one, I tell you, (Sir/Ma’am), no one, has ever had the nerve to talk to our Managers like that— except you, Sweetheart,” he said after he finally manages to control his wheezes, wiping a tear from the corners of his eyes with his thumb. You shrug as much as you could with a sore shoulder, “They told me I can ask for anything, so I asked for this.”

He laughed again as he opened the door for you, but little did you know, a storm is about to crash Knock Out’s jolly mood.

You didn’t see the look he has on his face when he saw you, slowly walking towards one of the traveling buses with Knock Out supporting half of your weight as you walk. You didn’t see where did he came from when Knock Out carried you in bridal-style (no matter how much you’ve protested) to help you climb the bus, but you sure did hear him when he ask;

“WHERE THE FRAG DID YOU THINKING YOU’RE GOING?!”

Knock Out’s ears visibly twitch once the power of Ratchet’s yell reached your eardrums. All of the guests jolted in surprise, and your bus driver, who’s also the tour guide, Smokescreen, turned around to ask, “What’s his problem?”

Before anyone could answer his question, Ratchet climbed onto the bus and proceed to snatch you from Knock Out’s arms. Your newest assigned nurse, of course, didn’t make it easy for him.

“What’s your problem?!” the doctor in red jacket (he doesn’t want to talk about his $500 shirt) yelled when Ratchet keeps pulling you out of his arms, and Ratchet yelled back, “You got  _my_  patient into a bus when they’re supposed to be in bed and resting, that’s my fraggin’  _problem_!”

“Well, newsflash, rusty-fin! Guess who just got assigned as the personal nurse?!”

“Who the frag cares?!”

“I do!”

Believe it or not, this tug-of-war happened in the stairs of a bus.

While the tug-of-war between the only medics of the island is heating up, the guests fished out their phones to record their ridiculous fight. You gave up your chance to have a part of it, looked up to meet the amused eyes of your bus driver on his seat. Smokescreen was crossing his arms as he watches the doctors like a bored babysitter watching the children he supposed to look after fighting over the only broken toy in the house 

“We’re gonna be here for a while, Pal,” he told you as the doctors now are trying to pull each other hair, and you predict it'd be a quite long while. 

 

 


	6. Promise?

The fight ended with the driver of the second bus honked his bus horn repeatedly, followed by the other three since the first bus is not moving at all. Smokescreen broke the fight physically—almost lost an eye in the process—and suggested them both to be your personal nurses. “I mean, guys, seriously,” Smokescreen said in a peaceful manner as he trying to speak while he endured the burning spot Knock Out clawed him at earlier, “it’s not like you’re going to lose your medical degree because of this, right? The other guests had been waiting for (Y/N) for two hours—are you seriously going to make them wait again just ‘cuz you two can’t decide whether they’re going for this trip or not?”

Some men in the back murmured their agreement, most of the guests are nodding and a middle-aged woman (who briefly looked like the one you kneed in the face) complained about how hot it is in an unmoving bus loudly. Ratchet’s wrinkles multiply as he realized his position is clearly cornered with an even more persistent younger doctor, impatient bus drivers and awaiting guests, while Knock Out is having the biggest shit-eating grin in his face.

The older doctor moved his attention to you, and that sharp glare of his certainly feels different from the quick glances he gave you when the first time you met. “Are you really going to risk your health just for a trip?”

You shrug your sore shoulders together. “I’ve already paid for the trip and the itinerary cost—why can’t I enjoy it?”

Ratchet’s stare told you every single of disappointment he has for your decision but said nothing when you’re all ended up sitting on the last seat of the bus since it has the widest space for a still-recovering patient, a smug doctor and an older, scowling doctor to sit together at once.

Smokescreen explains all the trees and the flowers you see the whole journey, their scientific names and ages, about how the specialized team selectively bred the flower, fruit and tree types to develop whole new species just to please the guests’ eyes—as it’s true that most of the plants you see all long the while are strangers to you, though it didn’t take long for you to lost interest and gave it to your two nearest companions.

While Ratchet was muttering (possibly cursing) about two irresponsible, immature managers back at the hotel, Knock Out was having fun for the entire time—he started it with playfully adding bullshit facts to every single thing Smokescreen said, pointing random things and brags about those things could be cooked into strengthener drug for ‘adult activities’ and such.

“And if you turned to your left, you’ll see the magnificent mango trees our team had brilliantly selected for its sweet taste of fruits—“

“—and also the strangely phallic-shaped leafs—“

“Please ignore the red bully on the back and remain focus to the cute tour guide on the front, thank you.”

But then, just like how people who would wore $402 jacket for trip, Knock Out soon directed the topic into talking about himself with animated hand gestures, bloating about how he managed to achieve his doctoral degree at such a young age, his super-delicate surgeon skills, eagle-like-eyes that could spot anything by a mere glance and how he used to be the brightest one among his colleague.

“Actually, even now, I still AM the brightest doctor,” he told you as he not-so-subtly circled his arm around you, pretending to be interested in his nails of the other hand all while he did so. “Just ask the waiters—they’d tell you about it.”

“That because he’ll refuse to treat them if they tell you the truth,” Ratchet said after he finally ran out of curse to mutters under his breath. His posture is slightly relaxed now and his wrinkles are back to their normal numbers, but the frown is still on its rightful place when Ratchet eyed Knock Out with such a degrading glare, “Typical ego-maniac brat.”

Knock Out’s arm moved faster than your nerves, pulling you closer to him before you have the chance to pull out, only stopped when you almost feel his lips on your earlobe, “Don’t listen to the old rusty doctor,” he said in a low voice that made the hair on the back of your neck stood up straight, “he’s jealous ‘cause I’ve gained your attention.”

“…and for the last three guests in the back, I’d have to remind you that this trip is child-friendly and rated PG-13, so please keep your hands for yourself, Doctor Knock Out, or Manager Megatron would like to have few words with you. I repeat, this trip is child-friendly and rated PG-13, so please—“

Smokescreen sudden announcement was interrupted by the guests’ laughter—even Ratchet snorted when Knock Out pulled back the arm he circled you with earlier with a face that rivals his jacket in color, mumbling a ‘big-mouthed brat’ as he looks away from everyone in the bus.

But then Smokescreen continues announcing about you’re going to arrive at a picnic area beside the only waterfall of this island in a minute, and you’re confused. “Didn’t we just have a lunch?”

Ratchet finally looks at you again, frown almost faded when he mumbled, “Huh?”

“We’re already had smoked tuna for lunch back at the ship,” you told him, “y’know, that one time before the fight break and things went to the south? I know the sun is still high but is it necessary to have double lunch for a day? Not that I’m complaining but—“

Ratchet stared at you as if you just sold your own soul for a corn chip, “Why did you think I told you to stay in your bed?”

“…what?”

“The ship had been arrived since a night ago—today is a different day.”

You looked at Ratchet who looks at you bitterly, trying to find a clue of jokes on his face because there’s no way you’ve _blacked out that long_ —

“Bu-but-but—“ you fumbled to fish out your phone, unlocked it to show Ratchet today’s date, “this is the date of the day I hopped on that ship! If today is the next day, how could my phone’s date stayed the same?!”

“We’re on a tropical land, kid—timeline’s a bitch,” he answered shortly as if it’d explain how the fuck timeline has anything to do with the fact that your phone’s date seems to be frozen on yesterday’s date. You tried to squint at the phone of a lady who sat in front you, and then the person next to her, and the person next to them and so on, but all their phones had settled to ‘tomorrow’s date as if they’re all conspired to play pranks on you. _What kind of twilight zone_ —

“Here we are, everyone! Please check your belongings before you left the bus and make sure you have left nothing behind or I might found new trinkets to add to my pile of silver!”

Again, the guests laughed to their tour guide’s odd punch-line as they got up and collect their stuff, lining up to exit the bus with Smokescreen as their led. Knock Out was the first to get up among the three of you, moaning while him showing off stretching his body up. “Well, time sure is a complicated thing, but don’t let it make you miss your daily fuel, doll. Would you like to be carried again, hmm?”

“No, thanks, I’—“

The floor beneath your feet disappeared and you thought you’re losing your consciousness again, but turns out it’s because the older doctor literally swept you off your feet into his arms. “No, but since _your_ eyes are so _sharp and bright_ , why don’t you find us a good picnic spot near the waterfall?” Ratchet breathes as if he didn’t sweep an adult off their feet just now, “I’d like to, but, you know me, Knock Out—I’m old and bitter, surely _my_ taste doesn't hold a candle to _yours_. What’d you say, _hmm_?”

Knock Out had ‘bitch’ plastered all over his face while Ratchet has his nose up to the sky. The senior is using his junior’s own ego against him, and he won because it only took literally five seconds before Knock Out ruffled his fur and elegantly stomped out of the bus, swearing he’d find the ‘most mind-blowing seat’ this piece of mass could provide, leaving you alone with the older doctor.

“As I said,” Ratchet snorted, “ego-maniac brat.”

It might because your mind was clouded with confusion, but you thought you saw Ratchet’s wink just now.

 

* * *

 

Knock Out did find a perfect viewing spot for you, all huffed chest and Hollywood-smile when he show you the place, but he also forgot to line up for the food and now he had just gone back to line up with the remaining 75 guests because his ‘dearest patient’ should be sitting nice and pretty instead lining up like a normal person, even if that means the said dearest patient would be under his senior's watch instead of his.

Truth to be told, Knock Out honestly has nothing to worry about. Ratchet was exposed to the warm sun rays and cooling shade of a tree beside you at once—you’ve lost him in the Napping Land faster than when he ran up to stop Knock Out from getting you onto the bus.

The old man sleeps like a log, hands on his (surprisingly well-defined) stomach and snores loudly, leaving you alone on the picnic mat. While the spot is indeed granted you the best view in the house, it’s also the most isolated spot because 1) it’s located in the highest part of the area and 2) nobody wants to climb that high with plates of food and bottles of water in their hands and bringing them back down again; except you three, of course.

You’ve managed to snap a perfect picture of the waterfall to show it off to Nad later (since it turned out this area also has zero signal) before your phone died. Ratchet is still snoring, gaping a little and you regretted for not taking his sleeping face before your phone died.

Soon, a Sleeping Ratchet is just as boring as the Quiet Ratchet. Y ou’re hungry, lonely, and bored; the other guests looked so small from here, and their chatting noises sounds like the white noise of a radio with no channel from afar. You wanted to tell Knock Out yo hurry up, but there are still about fifty guests lining up into two queues for the lunch, and you don’t have the heart to wake the doctor up when he looked so relaxed and peaceful right now.

The waterfall looked nice and cool from here, not to mention how happy the guests looked as they splash around and swim in the waterfall's pool. However, you do realize it’s also quite slippery, and you don’t want to push your luck that far with your current condition.

_The forest, however…_

The trees looked like a huge ass green blanket from your spot, calm and occasionally rustled by the passing wind of the oncoming sunset. The leaves moved like hands, waving at you from the below surface to visit and explore the domain of their trees, and you’re seriously considering their invitations. 

You glanced to Ratchet, and he’s peaceful as ever, younger even if you ignore the thin wrinkles on his forehead. You snorted at the significant difference between the Angry Ratchet and the Sleeping Ratchet, “Sorry, Ratch,” you whispered as you got up from the picnic mat, “Just a little stroll and I’d be back. Bye.”

He mumbled something incoherently and you took that as his blessing while you carefully stepping down from the special spot Knock Out picked for you. The wind blows again, ruffling your hair as if encouraging you to escape your protective nurses this instant, and the thought made you feel giddy—too bad Nadia is not here to scold you, or you might take her with you to explore the forest too.

You felt a little paranoid when you crossed the grass field to reach the forest because it’s a really open area, and your clothes’ colors stood out among the grass’ color. Knock Out could see you in any moment and there goes your adventurous chance, but he was too busy watching after his own jacket to be aware of anything in the radius of 2 meters from him so no one felt inclined to say anything when they saw a half-limping guest dragging themselves across the grass field, making everything almost too easy for you who had envisioned yourself as a secret agent trying to get away from the enemy’s patrols.

However, the further you drag yourself to, the more you noticed that this grass field is disturbingly… empty.

You were drown at the realization, and your steps slowed down. The grass grew as tall as your knees, scratching your skin as you walk through them, but nothing seems clung to either your pants or your clothes. The land is dry despite being only 20 meters away from a waterfall, and there is no a single cricket or any other insects creaking nearby.

The sky is bright, decorated with fluffy white clouds and blue as ever, but you can't remember seeing any bird ever since you opened your eyes in the medical bay, nor any animal or insect in general—not even an ant had crossed your vision range. 

The wind finally stops whistling, and the silence is deafening.

You always have someone beside you all the time since you got down from the bed, and now that you're alone, everything is silent, and not in peaceful manner.

It’s not a pleasant discovery.

 “You lost?”

You screamed like someone had pinched your sides unexpectedly, and turned around to see a face that should belong to a high-schooler than someone in a driver’s uniform. Despite the baby-face of his, Smokescreen still has to crane his neck down to look at you in the eyes properly. “Everyone is having lunch over there; what’re you doing here, all alone and staring at the ground? Did you find a pile of silver on it?”

You blinked, “What’s with you and silver?”

“I dunno, I just—hey!” Smokescreen suddenly looked so offended by your question, “Are you trying to change the topic? I know I babble a lot but I also knew when someone is trying to change the topic—Barricade and Knock Out does that a lot.”

This is the guy that tried to separate two surgeon masters bare-handedly when they were trying to claw each other's eye out, so you just held yourself from having a debate with him, "No, I’m not lost. I just wanna check out the forest, that’s all.”

Smokescreen blue eyes light up, like cats’ eyes when you see them in the dark, “Ohh! Why don’t you say so? Here, take my hand—I’m sooo gonna show you so many cool things!”

His childish demeanor washed away your creeping dread feeling. Maybe it was all your feeling alone; you haven't eat anything since morning, and still a little confused from the exact timeline of this island. The lack of animals and insect are probably the result of manipulated bred of the floras, and maybe you just were not paying enough attention. Yeah, totally like that. You're confused because you're too hungry.

The early eerie feeling is quick to be replaced by a refreshed excitement as Smokescreen starts talking about the very cool tiny lake in a shallow cave that connected to the open sea, and sometimes these glowing jellyfishes would find their way into that lake, and they would glow like a bunch of floating nightlights.

“That’s a pretty image!” you sighed in adoration as you followed him into the forest, “how far it is from here?”

“A little further to the west,” he told you, gently yet firmly guiding you through the trees, tje bright smile never ceased from his face, “it’ll take an hour to reach it from here, but trust me, it’s worth it!”

After a short mental calculation, you halted your heels and Smokescreen looked like a puppy that had been denied from outdoor activities, “What’s wrong? Why did you stop? Are you hurt? Should I carry you? I can carry you if you want.”

He sounds even more pitiful than his sad eyes, but the mental image of the screeching medics as they fuss after you held your attention more than the floating tiny jellyfishes in a magical lake, “Smokescreen, if it took us an hour to get there, that means it’d be two hours by the time we get back here, not to mention the time we’d spend to watch the jellyfishes. I can’t be gone that long—Ratchet would arrest me for medical reasons.”

“I don’t believe he has that much of authority,” he huffed like a child, shoulders dropped in dying excitement. If Smokescreen had those anime dog-ears, they’d be flattened beside his head, “but you’re right. And Knock Out would snitch me to Manager Optimus. But tomorrow’s schedules for guests are also already filled with other fun things; a tiny lake with some glowing things in it won’t be so exciting compared to them.”

“Nonsense,” you told him, “tomorrow’s schedule might be full, so does the next day, and the next days after that, but I’d find a time to visit that lake.”

After all, that’s how you survived high-school and college.

Smokescreen eyes lighted up again, like the light bulb in a flashlight with a pair of new batteries, “Really? You would?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded in an assuring manner, “Even if I couldn’t find the time, I could get up early before we left the island so we’d have time to see that very cool lake.”

“Why would you lea—“

Again, just like Steve, his words stopped in mid-sentence, looking at you as if this is the first time he’s seeing a human. His eyebrows furrowed in confused manner, as if he suddenly couldn't understand what did you just said, but he snapped out of it faster than Steve, smiling even brighter than before, “Sure! I’ll be waiting. That’s a promise, right?”

He held out his pinkie to you, like an oversized child in a uniform, and you can’t help but link it to your own.

 


	7. A Helpful Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter this time. Sorry, but I've been busy since college started and the new part time job I've got. I'll do better next time, thank you for your patience :-)

The grass field was less scary when you on your way back to your picnic spot, especially with Smokescreen helping you crossed it while talking about every single spot he had claimed in this island. The fact that it was lacking other living beings aside the one that feeds on photosynthesis process was already gone from your focus by the time Smokescreen was complaining about another cave behind the waterfall being claimed by someone else. When Smokescreen waved you goodbye as he runs towards the lunch queue to get his own, the previous dread feeling had been completely forgotten.

Ratchet was still snoring when you're back to the picnic mat; his large hand occasionally scratched his tummy. The sight somehow reminded you of a sleeping gorilla you once saw on a documentary channel a long time ago—cute but dangerous, nonetheless. Wake him up and the big chance is he'll complain you to death.

You crouched near him to take a closer look anyway.

Under the shade of a melancholy tree, the doctor sleeps like he never had. The whispering wind cautiously getting some wild strays out of his face, almost as if being careful not to wake him up too soon. He didn't, though he did mumble something along the line ‘I needed that' softly before he went silent again. _Maybe he dreamed of someone messed with his tools or something._

Ratchet looked so utterly different from the ‘angry old man' vibe he always gives to everyone when he relaxed—does it have anything to do with the old scars you saw earlier? Or was it something else? Whatever is that, your muse was interrupted when you heard Knock Out announced his return, smoothly climbing up to you with three plates of lobster and drinks in his hands.

From their previous interaction, you knew damn well Knock Out would play a prank on Ratchet while he's in his most vulnerable state, and would tempt you to join him and you also knew you WOULD. So you woke the Ratchet up, shaking his shoulder lightly until Ratchet complained himself to awakening, "What is it?"

"Lunch!" you told him, pointing at the incoming lobsters, and got up to help Knock Out before he spoiled the three lobsters on the ground instead of eating it.

The sun is lowering, but the sky is still bright enough to show you the red of the lobster on each plate, and the sparkling reflection of lemon tea's swirling surface as Knock Out laid yours down. Add the intoxicating scents, and your mouth watered like the waterfall itself, "Any grandiose title for this one?"

"Fresh lobsters with Indonesian Spices, (Sir/Ma'am)," Knock Out pressed his index finger and thumb together, kissed them like a chef in a culinary ad would, "Special dish for the special guest!"

Ratchet mumbled in zero interest, inspecting the lobster, and the variety of spices around it. A particular one that shaped like a dried flower caught a tiny bit of his attention, "Bee sure is improving, isn't he?"

"He's been obsessed with anything edible since his first mashed potato," Knock Out said, elegantly pulling out the lobster's meat out of its shell with a precision of a surgeon, "I'd be surprised if he hadn't tried to cook a rock yet."

You're struggling with yours when you noticed the word Knock Out used to describe your newest favorite chef, "Obsessed?"

"Yep," Knock Out nodded before he ate the meat. "Real messy, if I wasn't mistaken. He was so angry about his voice box after the Wa—"

"He had an accident," Ratchet, rudely and suddenly, interrupted Knock Out with his own answer. "When he was young—a teen, when he was still in the military," the older doctor told you after he swallowed the properly munched meat, "It damaged his voice box, forbid him from talking at all. The doctors did their best, but the treatment still took years before the voice box is totally healed. And in all those years, Bee spent most of his time cooking and experimenting with food, desserts, and stuff. He was angry for those times too, but at least he's not as destructive as before. And then—"

He stopped to sip his lemon tea, and never have you ever been so impatiently watching someone drink. "And then what?" you urged him, "C'mon doc, his voice box got better again, right?"

"He did," Knock Out said, finally took a pity on your effort to open your own lobster and helped you with it. "Thanks to me, Bee recovered into a perfect condition, just like before the damage happened," he added as he handed your lobster back with a wink.

Ratchet clicked his tongue audibly, "Said someone who almost left a ball of cotton in his throat."

"You put your glasses on your head and you thought Pharma hid it."

Ratchet threatens to spoil Knock Out's jacket with lobster's spices and that's your clue to avert your attention to somewhere else.

At the very least, your suspicion about Ratchet's scars as the result of his military days is confirmed—well, you assumed he is, since he knew about Knock Out's ‘cotton ball accident', then he must have been one of the doctors, since Knock Out mentioned another doctor (nurse?) involved in the surgery. He might be still bitter about how long he and his team took to fix a ‘teenager' military personnel, despite their professionalism and knowledge in the medical field; that'd explain so much about the super-protectiveness attitude they've been giving to you since morning.

The train of your mind keep going on the endless railway your brain made up, fueled by many kinds of theory and made-up stories on how the scars on his hands originated from. That train, however, halted once you see how dark the sky is right now. You glanced down and you see most of the guests have already got inside the buses, and there are only 3-4 people left under the waterfall, and even they're preparing to leave. The waiters seem came out of nowhere, picking up the dirty plates, bottle and scattered shells the guests left on the ground, armed only with two trash bag for each waiter. There is even some floating in the pond— _why would they throw them there? Can't people stop littering places just for a day?!_

The doctors stopped their bickering when they finally realized you're climbing down the spot, holding a bottle and a plate in one hand while the other is to balance yourself.

"(Y/N), you don't have to bother, really," Knock Out told you as he watched you slowly, very slowly getting down, "it's the waiters' work!"

"Nah," you told him, "we're in the last place anyone would pick at this area. The waiters might forget to check this place, and it'd a damn shame if such a pretty place spoiled with lobsters' shell."

"Shame on you," Ratchet sneered to Knock Out before followed your action, picking up the remaining plates and bottle before he slides down the picnic spot to catch up with you. Knock Out might have said something in return, but he was too busy rolling up the picnic mat to be coherent with his words.

You and Ratchet are already handing the stuff to a staff who turned out to be Steve, and ‘baffled' is not enough to describe his reaction when you're helping him with the plates and bottles. "Oh goodness-(Y/N), you don't have to!" he yelped and quickly taking over all of the plates, and Ratchet waved him off, "Don't bother with them. It's like talking to a rock."

"I AM a very helpful rock," you retorted back, snatched the second trash bag from Steve's belt and left them to collect more trashes. Steve tried to stop you like how an old, kind nanny tried to stop her toddler from eating dirt, "(Y/N), please—you're a guest and you're still recovering. Just go back to the bus and left the dirty work to us!"

"Nope," with a sharp ‘p', "There are a hundred of us, and twenty of you. That means you guys got about 200 items to pick up in an area of 50x50 feet, not to mention the lobster's shells."

Steve tried to reply to that, but he couldn't so he changed the topic, "You're underestimating us, (Y/N). Manager Megatron had had us doing something worse than picking up thrashes; we'd used to it!"

"Too bad your Manager Megatron couldn't send more people to help you, huh?"

"Doctor Ratchet please help me!"

"I'm too old for this."

 

 


	8. A Morning Regret

“They’re nice.”

  
“Everyone is nice in your book, Optimus. Which one is it this time?”

  
“That guest. The one we met in the medical ward.”

  
Snorts. “Stubborn, if you ask me. Not a good candidate.”

  
“You don’t want them?”

  
“I never said that.”

 

* * *

  
The crowd of guest filled the main lobby like ants on spilled sugar. It’s hella spacious; as big as a football field, with perfect decorations and tropical scents. The lobby also has three luxurious chandeliers that made the gold in hotel’s white background lights up like real gold, something anyone would think in the first glance of this room. If this place doesn’t have a hundred people went here and there, walking back and forth collecting their stuff and keys, you’d pay to have a look around this place.

  
However, with a pained body as the result of lots of crouching and bending to collect trashes, you have a different priority.

  
Both of the doctors decided to stop bickering and helped you walk with each of your arm draped over their shoulder. Knock Out volunteered to retrieve your key once you’re all inside the lobby, and you gladly let him as Ratchet looked for the nearest soft-surfaced furniture to dump you on.

  
He chose one of the lobby’s main couches—bright white with caramel-colored corals—and you fell onto it like a rock; too tired to be bothered by the treatment. Ratchet sat on another couch after he dumped you, and when your eyes met, he sneered, “Soft rock.”

  
“Shut up,” you sighed, popping up your spines and other poppable bones, turning away from the smug doctor.

  
But Ratchet is not done yet. He moved to a closer couch, crossing his arms and leaned in like he just won a bet, “Have you ever wonder why I didn’t stop you from picking up trash, despite your fragile condition?”

  
You’re too tired to answer, only shaking your head at the lack of retorts. Ratchet leaned in, wearing an evil smile like how James Bond’s villain about to reveal their plan. The crowd is loud, but his words are so clear to your ears, “Now you’re so tired, you finally would friggin’ stay in your bed, and would be too tired to get up at the next day because of the injury.”

“NOOOOO—“

“ _Bonsoir, mon_ (Sir/Lady), doctor.”

A heavily French-accented voice interrupted your reenactment of Luke Skywalker’s reaction when he found out Darth Vader was his dad. Captain Hot Rod stood in a spot where the chandelier shone on him like a halo, and you had to fix your position to not hallucinate him as a French angel.  
In a clearer vision, you see Hot Rod has his hands crossed behind his back. He wore a plain white shirt with black pants, but still as formal as he is in his uniform. Hot Rod bent a little to level his eyes to yours, holding out a number of keys linked together as one as he speaks, “Dr. Knock Out was called to treat another injured guest, and he entrusted you room key and baggage to me, “ and then he straightened his back to stares at Ratchet, “I also carried a message from Manager Optimus to you Doctor—he wanted to see you in his office.”

Ratchet stared back with a glare, but Hot Rod cocked his head in a manner that translated his obvious higher position. There was a tiny grumble that sounds like a disagreement from Ratchet, then he flashed you a look before his eyes back to Hot Rod again.

“Right now,” Hot Rod continued, still staring, though his tone remains respectful.

In the end, instead of voicing out his opinion like usual, Ratchet nods and told Hot Rod to make sure you’re actually getting into your room instead of wandering around before he left and disappeared among the sea of humans in this lobby.

You didn’t have time to wonder what that was about because Hot Rod is already helping you to stand up, guiding you to the lift and dragging your baggage along. The crowded people parted to let him come through easily as he walks forward to the lift. You’re too sleepy to notice the fact that people only moved out of his way after his eyes met theirs.  
As the lift closed, Hot Rod’s formal manner dropped.

“So! (Mr/Ms/Mx. (L/N), yes?” the Captain asked, shocking you a little with the sudden energetic tone he used. You saw him punched the ‘7’ button before you nod wearily, and Hot Rod’s blue eyes zeroed on you from the top of your head to the edge of your toes, “You sure know how to make people remember you, don’t you?”

You made an inquiring face, so Hot Rod starts counting his fingers, “You’re the last guest to get onto the ship. Bee made you a special pudding since Steve was too chatty. You took five people at once to save Co-Captain Starscream. Not to mention you made the guests wait twice—“

“Okay, stop that—I get it,” you held your hand out in embarrassment as the other is covering your entire face, “I’m not an attention-seeker, I swear. I just had this habit to be slow at certain things. I don’t mean to be a gossip.”

Even Hot Rod’s laugh has the thick French accent, and the heat on your cheeks worsened. “Steve started it, I believe. And then the legend of your name was continued by some of the waiters who saw you throwing yourself into a fight to save Starscream—even that screamer insisted to meet you when you’re under Doctor Ratchet’s care.”

You’re still embarrassed and you didn’t know what he meant by the last part, but you glad he changed the topic, “He wasn’t there when I woke up.”

“Only because the Doctor and the Head Guard chased him away.”

The lift stopped with a melodious ‘ding’, and the hallway that lifts opened to is thrice bigger than the one you saw on the ship; much more luxurious and colorful. The walls are white, again, while the floor is colored in gold, making it looked like made of one. The doors are matte white with gold lines, like the ones you usually saw in Barbie’s movies—unrealistically perfect.

_(Just like everything on this island. But again, you're too tired to be bothered by it)_

The lights were in the perfect bright to make everything shines without the blinding, but every turn and every hallway so familiar it’s like walking in a golden maze. Thankfully, Hot Rod is there to lead the way.

“I heard from the bartender Starscream had asked for Ratchet’s permission to visit you first,” he continued as you walk, a little faster to make sure you wouldn’t stub your toe with the baggage he’s dragging, “but after the Doctor rejected him, Ultra Magnus had to prevent him from climbing the window of the room you’re in.”

The first sentence was fine, but the second one made you blinked twice in a second, “Your Co-Captain?”

Hot Rod nodded like an old sage, “Starscream lives by the ‘I do what I want’ motto, (Sir/Ma’am). Once he wanted something, Starscream literally would do anything in his power to get it,” he said like how old people would when they’re talking about their rebellious grandchildren, “This is not the first crazy thing he ever did. You should have seen him fighting over a lady against Skywarp and Thundercracker back at 198—“

A waiter suddenly appeared from the left turn, almost crashed into Hot Rod like how you and Steve met. Hot Rod gracefully stopped in time, spooked the waiter a little before he left after a quiet ‘excuse me’, and Hot Rod continued, “Nobody ever thought it is possible to impress such a _hautain_ person as he is, (Sir/Ma’am), aside by attractive appearance—not that I’m saying you’re not attractive—but I supposed it because they’ve never tried ‘genuine kind act’ before. And here is your room.”  
You stopped in front of a door with ‘708’ plat on it, and of course, the plat looked like it made of gold. You knew you shouldn’t be surprised of what would you find inside, but you did anyway—especially when you remember this extravagant room, with a queen-size bed on one end a 32 inch flat TV at another, mahogany closet and full-body mirror only cost less than $60 for a week.

“Still can’t believe I can get to enjoy hotel like this only with $55 for a week,” you told Hot Rod as you flop onto your bed, stretching and rolling on it like a cat high on cat-nip, “Was this some kind of marketing strategy? Your finance department must have been under a lot of stress with the prices.”

Hot Rod was inspecting the non-existence dust in your 7 ft. tall closet when you asked him. His back was facing you and he didn’t freeze upon your question. He did, however, cleared his throat before he answers you, “O-Oui. It was a—a riot, when they’re discussing the prices. Lots of screaming and ‘illogical’ shootings. Yes, very noisy.”

Hot Rod cleared his throat again before he closed your closet and give you the keys, “Breakfast would be ready at 9, lunch at 12, and dinner at 6. There’s a waiter bell in the middle of your headboard, yes, the shell-shaped one. The bathroom is there, behind you, and here’s the A/C remote. Oh, and if you woke up in the middle of the night to find Starscream hanging on your window rails,” he nodded to the window beside your closet, paused to reach into his pants pocket and pulled out a tiny pepper spray from it, “feel free to use this.”

“Oh my fucking god,” you wheezed as you accept the tiny bottle, “And if this didn’t work?”

“Punch him. I’ll cover you.”

Hot Rod left with a polite excuse so you can laugh as loud as you want by yourself in your room.

* * *

In the end, it wasn’t Starscream tapping your window that woke you up in the next morning. Sun rays came through your window, shone right upon you, but you don’t have the time to enjoy the ‘Renaissance-painting like’ sensation because of the painful throbs on your spine and rib area, angry and aching like a bitter ex, combining with hot white pain circling your wrists and ankles that makes you groans like a hungry zombie.

Without thinking twice, you hit the waiter’s bell and a monotone male voice speaks up, “Room service—what could we do for you?”

“My body feels like its falling into pieces—is it breakfast time yet?”

There was a pause from the other side of the, uh, bell, probably trying to connect your current condition and your irrelevant question, before it buzzed to life again, “Would you like a masseur and delivered breakfast service?”

“Yes—yes please, I want that.”

“Would you like dry or oil massage?”

“Uuuuhhh… oil?”

“Would you prefer lemonade or green tea fragea—“

“Anything that could reduce my pain is fine—just be hurry, please.”

“Okay.”

And the line disconnected, leaving you alone in the room as you whimpers in aching pain, and you thought you’ll experience the infamous ‘minutes that feels like years’ while waiting for help—once again, this hotel surprised you.

Literally a minute later, someone knocked your door; a muffled voice said something that sounds like ‘breakfast’ and ‘masseur’. You dragged yourself off the bed (almost kicked a short chair you hadn’t noticed the night before) and using your whole will not crawl to the door.

With God’s mercy, you found the right key to open the door in one try, and the Hawaiian guy before it recognized the ‘I’m-so-tired-I’m-dying’ symptoms by your face, immediately supported your body and carefully helping you to lie on your stomach on the bed, all while holding a tray full of things on the other hand.

The glinting silver tray made a faint ‘clink’ noise when his toned tan hand put it on your nightstand. “(Sir/Ma’am), I’m Bumblebee, your masseur. I need to take off your clothes, so I could—“

“Whu—” you turned your neck, which made a weird cracking sound when you did, to look him at his sparkling blue eyes, “But I thought you’re a chef?”

“Also a masseur,” the young man smiled as helped you to get up, and you can see the fading surgery scar across his neck. “Now, would you let me help you to undress?”

_(God, how could you say it so casually like that?)_

It’s awkward, and you’re super-duper self-conscious when you undressed, while Bee is in the room despite his eyes are on everywhere but you. But once he started to get on his work, shame is the last in your mind.

His fingers are thick and strong, a little calloused as you can feel them scrapped your skin every time Bee’s fingers moved in a certain angle. You held back your euphoric moans, but your bones and joints didn’t—those shameless sluts moaned under Bee’s touches, loud and strangely satisfying as he presses the spots that made your head feels light.

In that high-like state, you still able to identify Bee’s comment, “And I thought Ratchet was kidding when he told me you’d be crushed by the morning.”

There was a questioning hum from you, and Bee explained himself, “Last night, Ratchet told me to get up early so I could prepare the breakfast earlier since you’d, and I quote, ‘wrecked by the morning’.”

“That old guy knew everything, yet he didn’t even move to help me picking up trashes yesterday.”

You could hear him shrugs, “It’s probably his plan. Today’s schedule is kayaking in the North River and picnic at the afternoon.”

You turned around to meet Bee’s eyes, squinting in fraud anger, “That sly old man.”

Bee nodded in agreement, “That sly old man.”


	9. I Need Your Help

Hi everyone.

I'm sorry, this is not an update, but an emergency.

I live in Indonesia, and our government banned tumblr in this country because they found 360 porn blogs among 392 million blogs. 

They said Tumblr has no 'filter' because they have no idea about 'safe mode' yet, and thousands of Indonesian users are blocked from their own blogs. 

Please, please help us. They blocked thousands of blogs just because a percent of them has porn blog. They ignored the ones who came for inspirations, for help, for living, and for reasons to live. We need more than 15k votes to retrieve tumblr back, that's why we need every help we can get.

This is the link: 

https://www.change.org/p/rudiantara-id-buka-blokir-tumblr-tumblrku-kenanganku-savetumblr

Thank you for the vote!

 


	10. Wrong Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I'm not dead!  
> Many things happened, tumblr still blocked but hey! Here's the ninth chap!

TRIGGER WARNING: ATTEMPTED RAPE

 

Bee left two hours later, right after you convinced him you don’t need another breakfast since the one he brought in got cold because both of you were too busy talking about the grumpy doctor. He was really pushing about bringing you another food, despite the fact the first ones were perfectly fine, but in the end, due his busy schedule and your stubborn ass, he gave up.

“If you insist,” he said to your door while you’re putting on your clothes back (because he’s just as stubborn, insisted to give you the best service while you’re practically naked behind him), hands crossed on back as he rocks on his feet. “But if you ever needed some more food or another massage, you can find me in the kitchen at the first floor, just behind the dining room. I’ll be there with the Cons to prepare lunch until 12 a.m.”

“Cons?”

Maybe it was the rustling of your clothes; maybe it was Bee taking a sharp breath. Either way, he answers, “The waiters, I mean. Inside joke—I slipped.”

“Inside joke, huh?” you mused, pulling up your pants as you check your fully charged phone on the nightstand, “Robert make it sounds like the waiters are mean to be a bunch uptight people.”

“He and our Head Guard,” Bee agreed again, unnecessarily clearing his throat. You told him he can open the door now, since all that left is to put your shoes on. Bee opened the door, and right before he stepped out, he adds, “Just remember, if you ever need extra fries, I’ll be happy to oblige!” and closed the door with a faint ‘click’.

You straighten the crumpled edge of your shirt as you stare at the door Bee just closed, thinking about the word Knock Out used to describe Bee before this, and then comparing it to the personality Bee showed you ever since he walked through that door.

 _Real messy, if I wasn’t mistaken_ , you heard Knock Out’s voice in your head,  _so angry about his voice box after the Wa—_

The what?

Ratchet interrupted him, you recalled, and switched the topic to about how the doctors tried to fix Bee back in his military days. But why would he do that? Sure you can see the obvious rivalry between them, but since both of them had referred to the same event, why would he cut him off for?

Could it be… he was… ashamed?

Ratchet did mention about how long it took for the doctors to fix Bee—was he one of the doctors? Was he ashamed for how long a bunch of medical workers took to fix a teen, despite their professionalism? Is that why Ratchet had to cut Knock Out off so rudely?

The growl from your stomach called you out for ignoring the food tray Bee left on your desk, and you immediately went to chomp down on the cold sandwich and apple juice with scattered questions in your head.

As you chomped down the perfection Bee carved into food, you took your phone, checking your social media and messages—only to find out there was no signal in this place. The aligning lines on the top of your phone are now replaced by a tiny, semi-transparent ‘x’, and you noticed today’s date is one day after yesterday, just like Ratchet told you. Then you pulled out the drawer and took out the satellite phone you buried under small towels and books you brought along. The dates on the blocky phone is the date of yesterday, just like how it is the last time you checked it.

The juice you drink to wash down the salmon taste from the sandwich filled your stomach with cold feeling, and suddenly, you’re in that empty grass field again.

You put both of the phones down and took a deep breath, closing your eyes with force to chase out the dread feeling. You open your eyes again to look through the window, the view of green trees and blue sea come into your vision.

The sun shines brightly, a little too bright than yesterday, but nothing your sunblock can’t handle. The window of your room has no access for you to see the traveling buses you rode yesterday, but that’s fine, you thought as you ate the last bit of sandwich,  _I think I’ll take a walk today_.

With your silver charm around your neck, hanging under your top, satellite phone hidden under your baggy pants, and your smartphone in your pocket, you got out of your room.

Ratchet and Knock Out certainly are waiting for you in the lobby, ready to escort you to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what to you, so you punched the biggest number on the lift pad and goes for the highest floor of this building, which is the 11th floor; 9 floors away from your room.

As you waited, you checked the lift insides around, and now that you’re refreshed and awake, you noticed both of the ceilings and the ground of the lift is filled with pictures of colorful... mermen?

“What?” you whispered to yourself, backing off to the corner to have a better look on these paintings. The picture they put on the ground has many similar beings. But the more you look, the more you realize it’s actually a bunch of human-like fishes than a half-fish, half-human being, each is holding a weapon. The smaller, thinner ones are probably the females, and they have their weapons too. But instead posing like their male counterparts, the female ones, you see, are lying on the grounds, faces and bodies tainted with blue stains.

The faint ‘ding’ of the lift frightened you, but you punched the hold button quickly and looked up to examine the ceiling, squinted for the better look.

The ceiling has only two mermen, and they’re wearing more fancy-looking armor, holding bigger weapons than the ones on the ground picture. Kings? Commanders? Their armor and weapons are too different to be an alliance to each other, but they’re too calm for enemies of different factions. Peace restoration?

You stepped out of the lift once you realized holding it too long would give away your position. The lift closed, and when you turned around, you found yourself standing at the a dining room that is bigger, fancier than the one you saw back at the ship.

The floor is covered by red carpet, and the yellow lights on the ceilings compliment the golden decoration of the whole room. The dining tables and chairs are set on the corner of the room, as it’s not dining time yet, and this room is so big, you’ve only noticed the blue dot sitting at the bar at the end of the room as person when they waved their hand at you.

“O-oh! Yes, hi!” you waved back awkwardly, thanks to your hurting arm, and that person patted the seat next to him openly to you.

You took his invitation, half walking, half running to that seat because the ridiculous size of the room you’re at. It took you two minutes to finally reach him, the person who waved at you, and the blue dot you saw earlier was his blue shirt.

“Vern,” he introduced himself, white-teeth flashed once you shake his offered hand and you give him your name too. He’s looked like a guy that typically used to be the clown class back at the high school, but you can see his muscle under the short sleeve of his shirt when Vern reached for his drink, so you know he’s quite jacked despite the lanky figure.

“Kind of suspicious at first, huh?” Vern started, stirring his blue-colored drink with tiny umbrella, “100$ for one week itinerary, I thought it was a scammer at first.”

“My friend thought the same,” you agreed, “but here we are. You alone?”

“Well, my last girlfriend said I was a—“

“I mean as a guest,” you clicked your tongue in mild annoyance and Vern chuckled. “Yep. Woke up too late, can’t find anyone else.”

Your head moved before your mouth, gesturing the lift, “The waiters are at the kitchen, you didn’t think to ask them?”

Vern shook his head, sipping his drink a little, “I’m not feeling it, so I wondered around until the bartender found me and invited me over.”

“Breakdown?” you asked back, and Vern nodded, brown hair bouncing along his movement, “Mh-hm. Big nice guy with booming voice. Weird how they used those words as their names, eh? Not to mention the mask the waiters wear. Kinda creep me out.”

“Huh,” you numbly replied, recalling the first time you met Steve after you landed on him and the mask he wore, “I thought it’s pretty interesting marketing strategy. Where else you got masked men to serve you at 24/7?”

“At restaurant with weird theme, haunted house, weird hote—“

“Okay, smartass, I got it, you’re smart,” you hold up both of your hands, giving up at Vern as the said person laughed at your defeat. You turned around, slamming you palm at the counter with no malicious intent, “And where’s the bartender when you need him? I think I need some more apple juice here…”

“Oh, Breakdown. He, um,” Vern crunched his eyebrows, trying to remember, “He said he need to grab something, left earlier and I’m alone again. What brings you here anyway?”

‘Running away from my personal nurses because I love my privacy’ doesn’t sounds like a fitting answer, so you shrugged and says, “I wanna do something different than looking around and gaping at the view.”

The grin on Vern’s face suddenly got wider as he finished the whole drink. He slide the glass over and jumped down from his chair, tugging the hem of your clothes as he did, “I know what to do—come with me.”

You cocked your head, “If you’re about to take me to swimming at the beach, forget it; I’m still sore from the last trip.”

“Nah,” his bangs swung around when Vern shook his head, “It’s a little different, but fun. I promise.”

His smile was a split of Knock Out’s mischievousness and Bee’s delight, so you slide down from your chair and followed him to the lift.

 

* * *

 

When you asked for his opinion about the pictures in the lift, Vern only shrugged and told you it’s probably the Manager’s aesthetic or to entertain the guests with ‘mysterious’ pictures of something. That could be the case, but you couldn’t afford to think about some classical pictures of mermen when you and your new friend are busy muffling your giggles avoiding a very murderous looking old doctor, stomping around the hotel yelling your name and swearing to strap you down for medical arrest if you don’t show up right that moment in front of him.

“Never liked doctors,” Vern whispered to you as you sneaked through the waiters’ exit and run straight to the woods, holding each other’s hands like kindergarten kids running away from their caretakers.

You two keep running, deep into the woods until you can’t see the hotel anymore. Vern fell on his butt, laughing and panting, while you chose to sit more gracefully for the sake of your recovering body, laughing and panting too.

“What’s next?” you asked him, and Vern hold his hand up as he catching up his breath. “I overheard one of those guys last night,” he jabbed his thumb to the hotel direction, “one of them was bragging that he’s about to take his ‘soon-to-be’ mate to a pretty lake at the west on Friday. So I thought, like, ‘Hey, why not go there before they fu—“

“Hold up,” you cut him off, and Vern looked slightly surprised of the seriousness your tone. “Vern, the guy you overheard, was he called ‘Smokescreen’?”

Vern crunched his eyebrows again, “Uh, I think that’s what they called him. Why?”

Was Smokescreen talking about you? He could be not, but if he was about to take his ‘soon-to-be-mate’ to that lake, assuming that his ‘soon-to-be-mate’ is someone else, why would he asked you to go there also? To ask for your blessing?

But that’s not important right now.

“Vern, I don’t think we should go there,” you finally answered the taller man, “I knew that guy, and that lake is probably something important for his future. Better not to bother it.”

“Bah, and here I thought you’re in for the fun,” Vern pouted playfully, kicking the marbles under his sneakers. He didn’t mean the last part, but it still initiates an awkward silence around you, awkward enough to bring Vern sit down again after few seconds of it.

You followed the gesture, about to lie down when Vern suddenly suggested a new idea, “How about the waterfall?”

Your ears perked up at the idea, “Not bad. I didn’t get the chance to get near the waterfall itself when we had picnic there yesterday.”

Vern took it as your agreement, and soon enough you found yourself and him running again, across the empty grass field to reach the water. You slowed down just before you reached the edge, but Vern threw away his tops and somersaults into the water like carefree guy he is, splashing you water from the dive he made.

He surfaced after a second, gesturing you to join him. “It’s kinda cold but it’s good! C’mon, (Y/N)! You’ll love it!”

“Nah,” you waved your hand, “Still sore. I’m just gonna watch you from here.”

He replied with ‘Suit yourself!’ and back to swimming in the clear water, while you watched from dry land. Truth to be told, you really wanted to join him, splashing water freely like that, but you remember your injuries and you don’t need Ratchet strapping you down for swimming with your current condition.

Since you cannot go into the water and swim, as Vern practice his underwater moves, you pick flat rocks and throw them into the part of the water that is far from the one Vern is swimming in, reliving your childhood memory in summer vacation near a lake at the local park, throwing rocks into the water and watch which one made the it the farthest.

You’re chucking your twenty-fifth rock when Vern climbed back onto the dry land, using his thrown shirt as towel and lied down next to you. “Having fun with rocks? Really?” he asked mockingly, and your twenty-seventh rock just made it past your eleventh rock’s record. “Oh, believe me, this is as fun as swimming.”

“But that’s not the real fun, though.”

Out of blue, Vern pulled your leg when you’re releasing your twenty-ninth rock, causing you to lose your balance. Vern maneuvered you as you fall, causing you to fall on him. Before you could get up and ask what the fuck was his problem, Vern’s lips are on yours, biting your lips and tongue prodding into your mouth, licking the upper ceiling of your jaw.

Your fist moved faster than your mind, and for once, you glad it is.

“Vern, what the FUCK?!” you couldn’t hold back the tone for the last word as you got up from him. Vern didn’t look happy for your reaction as he wipe his mouth. In fact, he looked  _pissed_.

“This is what you’re paying me for entertaining you?” he asked, and you’re now angry and confused. “The fuck you’re talking about?” you asked back, and Vern looked even more pissed.

“You came to me, acting all cute and begging me to entertain you. Now I brought you here, you refuse me?” he stepped closer, standing in his full height and fists are balled. You stepped back, anger faded and confusion surfaced, “Wai-wait. What?”

“You should be thanking me, you little stupid fuck,” Vern hissed like an angry badger, grabbing your hand faster than you could think he’s capable of, “I ditched a bar full of good drinks to humor you, and you had the guts to punch me?”

Your fight and flight instinct activated, but Vern saw it coming, so he punched you in the gut first. The punch made you folding yourself, and Vern used it to push you down onto the ground again, pulling down your pants and ripping your clothes open.

You tried to scream, but Vern took you by your forehead before slammed your head to the hard ground under the back of your head as he bites your shoulder. Just when he’s about to slam your head again, your thumbs found his eyes and pushed it back into his skull. Vern was distracted by the pain, and you used it to grab his head by the hair to knee his nose until you felt something cracked before your kneecap.

“Stupid little fuck—“ he yelled as he got away from you, hair messed up like a madman with blood all over his face. Vern wipe it off his face, and when he saw the blood, he roared like crazy before leaping to you again.

You did your best to held back your pain as you posed your arms into ‘x’ in front of your face to protect it, waiting for another attack, but Vern never came. You lowered your defense, half expected Vern’s crazied bloody face to appear before your nose, but no, there’s no Vern in front of you.

What you found, however, is a tall and slim man with uniform, long face with sharp chin. He has black hair with some grey lines on the sides, and he also has Vern under his boot, writhing like a disgusting worm on the ground.

The man turned around, and when his dark brown eyes met yours, he smiled like Cheshire Cat did to Alice, “Well, well, well—look how the table had turned.”

“Huh?”

With boot still on Vern’s back, the man bowed, “Co-Captain Starscream; at your service.”

 


	11. The Tip of An Iceberg

Vern got away from Starscream’s boot by rolling to his side, getting up as fast as a person with a broken nose could. You and Starscream watched him moves; you’re frozen with fear while Starscream with boredom on his eyes. Once Vern saw Starscream’s uniform, he jabs an index finger to you, “They punched me out of nowhere.”

Before you could holler your disagreement upon Vern’s accusation, Starscream fished out a smartphone from his pocket, showing Vern the screen, “Really? But, my good sir, the evidence here agrees to disagree with you.”

On the screen, there’s a scene where Vern punched you first in your gut, man-handled you onto the ground and starting to ripping off your clothes. The video is shown to be 2 minutes long, and Starscream puts it back into his pocket before Vern had the chance to snatch it away.

“When you’re asked,” Starscream continued, casually tidying his tie as he speaks, “just say you fell and hit a rock near this waterfall by your own mistake. Mention mine or (Y/N)’s name and Soundwave will make that video would have gone viral within seconds.”

Vern’s neck muscles are tightening from anger, gritted teeth and bloodied face only make him more and more looked like to a runaway mental hospital patient. His fists are balled tight, and for a second you thought he’d pounce the Co-Captain.

And he did.

You didn’t exactly see how did it happen, but you managed to see Vern jumped and aimed for Starscream, roared like a desperate man he is, but Starscream fucking bitch-slapped him to the ground, like how you would swat a fly coming to your face.

Should you help him, again? Vern might be just one person, but you’ve tasted his strength and hidden craze; Starscream might need some help.

The Co-Captain saw your concern, and you see his mouthed ‘I got this’ before round-house kicked Vern, sending him straight to the ground again. Starscream didn’t let Vern get up, quickly grabbing him by the neck and send a punch to his face.

Vern fell on his butt, and Starscream never let him back on his feet. The Co-Captain rolled up his sleeve and punched Vern again before he could even have lifted his upper body, and again, and again, and again.

It’s like you’re back to the ship again; when the guests are trying to molest the performers, in a big, dark room with strange music blasting in the background. Surreal and confusing—you’re unable to move as the Co-Captain punched Vern, hard enough to let you hear what kind of sound bones would make when they’re hitting a skull. Starscream does that with a straight face and thin lips, as if he merely trying to drain a wet cloth instead inches away from erasing someone’s chance to see the sunlight again.

“Stop,” you found yourself whispered, despite the hot bite and claw marks Vern left on your chest, and the ringing noise on the back on your head from how hard Vern slammed your head to the ground. “Stop!” you repeated, a little louder this time, but Starscream didn’t stop. Vern’s movement is getting less and less visible, and Starscream looked too calm for someone who’s punching the life out of another person at the moment.

Mustering all energy, you moved to stop another punch from Starscream, holding his fist before it could land another hit. Starscream’s knuckle is hard and bruised, felt cold against your palms (because his fist is as big as both of your palms) and the owner turns to you with a question in his calm face. His perfect eyebrow arched, one stray from his bang fell on his forehead, another addition to his beautiful face, but the blood on his knuckles prevent you from admiring his picture too long.

Vern is there, laying on the ground with broken nose, bruised face and short breathes. You gulped your saliva at the sight.

You released his fist awkwardly, and the way Starscream pulled it back held no negative meaning towards your earlier act. “Are you planning to kill him?” you asked slowly, as if Vern would wake up and start another fight if he heard you.

Starscream huffed at your question, mildly offended by the accusation, “Actually, no. That’d decrease our star on marketing,” he added with a joking tone, but the damage he did to Vern’s face is way too serious to be a joke.

“Is he still alive?” you asked again, as Starscream pulled out his phone again, dialing someone from the hotel. “Yes. It might have looked violent, but I merely trying to knock him out else he’d be a problem for both of us. Remember how you need to throw yourself to save me back on the ship?”

You’re about to answer that, but the other side picked up the phone and Starscream has to answer the person first.

“…A little trouble. No, I told you, that’s not the case—we got a rude guest who couldn’t take no for answer—no, what do you think I am, a savage? Stop asking and come here, Steve, and bring Knock Out along. Ratchet would snitch me, so no, don’t tell him—good. Yes. I’ll leave him near the waterfall. Thanks.”

Starscream slipped the phone back into his pocket once the call ended, picking up Vern’s shirt to wipe the blood on his knuckle with. He eyed you for a second before makes a comment about how you’d need a proper cleaning, as if he wasn’t just about to end someone’s life (despite his smooth denial) seconds ago.

Gently, Starscream led you to sit on a small stone with the flattest surface nearby, fished out a small cloth from his vest and dusting off the dirt on your clothes and pants.

You let him do whatever he needed to do, as he kneels and cleaned the dirt that clings to your skin in silence. When his hand got too close to the hidden satellite phone, however, your leg jerked away from him before you could stop it.

Your breath stopped as you watch how Starscream’ll react to that, and the Co-Captain clicked his tongue. “Apologize, (Y/N). Did my earlier stunt scare you?” he asked, pulling the best puppy face a 5,9 ft guy could afford. He thought the reaction was caused by your fear of him, not because you’re hiding something under your baggy pants.

“N-no, not really,” you played along, offering him your tight smile, “Just surprised, that’s all, since you looked so cornered back at the ship and you just—“ you waved your hands around, gesturing Vern and the bloody fist he has, “went all Jackie Chan on him, so, I-uhh…yeah.”

Starscream believed your lie (which is actually half true), and chuckles with his raspy voice, “Well, rather than concerned, I actually was worried, because the guests back then were under alcohol influence and it’s Wheeljack’s alcohol. To defend me is to hurt them, and the blame, of course, would go to our side. Meanwhile, that dickweed over there,” he jabbed his thumb to Vern, “was completely sober, and on full-control of his consciousness. Plus, he was forcing himself on you physically. Therefore, I have all the right to beat him up.”

Your lips pulled inwards at the mention of ‘sober’. Starscream noticed it, cocked his head slightly and asked what’s wrong.

“Uh, about the sober part,” your hand sneaked to the back of your neck to palm it, rubbing it out of guilt, “I dunno if he’s completely sober. He was drinking this blue stuff at the bar on the top floor before I met him. Who knew how many shots he had taken?”

Starscream made a little humming sound before the replied, “Was the bartender there?”

“Breakdown? He wasn’t when I got there. Vern said Breakdown left earlier to take a stock or something.”

“Which is a lie,” Starscream added, dramatically getting up as he explains the whole situation, rolling down his sleeve and straightened his leather jacket to add the effects, “because Breakdown was helping in the kitchen since 8 at the morning and hadn’t left the place until before I left the hotel. He lied about the bartender, so he must have been broke into the bar by himself.”

A silent ‘ping’ came from his phone, and Starscream unlocked his phone to see what it is. “Ha!” he suddenly exclaimed after a while, scrolling his phone screen with glee, “Vernon Jayden Bend. Arrested 3 times for sexual harassment in public, reported as an abusive partner for 2 women and a man in the last seven months. Just got out from the jail recently. Another guilt for your molester, my d—“

“Speaking of which, how did you find me?”

The hand he used to dramatizes his explanation twitched at your sudden interruption, and you couldn’t determine if it was a surprised reaction or was it an annoyance for being interrupted. That hand, however, is gracefully brought down to be offered to you, along with the charming smile and glinting eyes, “It’ll be easier to show you than to explain it.”

You’ve been tricked once by Vern, and you’ve heard how ‘persistent’ Starscream could be. Not to mention you’ve forgotten your pepper spray, and you’ve witnessed how strong Starscream actually is. He may have looked charming, like a prince in heeled-boots and leather jacket—but what’s the guarantee he wouldn’t attack you too?

“I understand your concern,” he said slowly, pulling his hand back and kneeled again in front of you. “You must’ve still shaken from what happened, yes?”

Upon the question, you found yourself having difficulty to answer. “Well, considering these,” you pulled down your collar to show him the bite and claw marks, “just occurred a minute ago, and the surprising strength you showed me, I—well,” you pulled your hair back, “I am-am shocked.”

“That is completely understandable, (Y/N),” Starscream replied, getting up as he dusts off his knees. Disappointment is clear in his tone, but his face is showing nothing to give it away. “Then, I think it’s better to get you some water first. I heard it’s good for a shaken person.”

“You’re going back to the hotel?” because the thought of Starscream walking back and forth with a glass of water, carrying it across the forest for you is just too damn ridiculous to think about, but now is not the time to laugh. Starscream shook his head, “Oh, no, dear. Why would I go back to the hotel, when I got my own water stock here?”

“…am I about to drink water from this waterfall?”

Apparently, this is the time to laugh, because Starscream immediately barked out a loud laugh, holding his stomach as he laughs on your innocent question. You watched him for a good moment, thinking about laughing out loud like that somehow made him looked safer than the cold-eyed guy he was when he punched Vern repeatedly.

“That… is not a bad idea,” Starscream said through wheezes, “but not what I would recommend to someone who would jump onto five people to defend me when they barely know me,” he added, wiping a tear from a corner of his left eye and putting his charming face back on, “I am talking the thing I was about to show you, dear,” his index finger pointed the waterfall, where the curtain of water is, “the secret cave behind the waterfall—my favorite hidden place on this island.”

You watched as Starscream climbed the piling rocks beside the waterfall, gracefully hopping from one rock to another as you recalled the same spot Smokescreen mentioned before Starscream. He mentioned about a cave behind the waterfall—you just never guessed it was Starscream who claimed it. In fact, since it’s Smokescream who talked about it, you thought the waterfall cave belonged to Bee.

Starscream hopped into a particularly large rock, and never hopped out. So that’s the entrance.

Now if you think about it, it’d make no sense if Bee claimed that spot. Bee, as Knock Out said, is obsessed with food and other edible things. If Bee’s about to claim a place, he probably claimed an entire garden of vegetables or something similar. Besides, judging from the size of the (literal) stepping rocks led to the entrance, this place would be suited for someone with tall and slim physical figure. And with the dramatic waterfall and that hidden entrance, Knock Out would be your best guess if Starscream hadn’t revealed his stock of ‘recommended’ water.

Not even a minute later, he returned, long legs helped him hopping out from the same large rock with an unopened bottle of mineral water on his hold, stepping down gracefully like a drama queen he is. “Here you go,” he offered the bottle in a sing-song voice, and you have no idea how accepting a bottled water could feel like accepting a bucket of roses.

“As for your question,” Starscream began as you greedily gulped down the fresh water, “I came here to refresh my mind. Dealing with Ultra Magnus is the best way to receive a painful headache, and I meant to soothe my head with the sight of this area. Much to my surprise, I found my savior as a damsel in distress, instead.”

You knew Starscream just save you from being raped in the middle of the afternoon, but that smirking face is annoying enough for you to bringi on a specific topic about him, “Hot Rod told me you’re about to break into my room. Is that why this Ultra Magnus guy was giving you a headache?”

Starscream let out a snort, polishing his perfectly manicured nails on his jacket as he answered, “I merely demanded to meet my injured savior, (Y/N), with no attempt to break in or anything. I was a little pushing, I’ll admit that, but breaking in? Please—Hot Rod just loooove gossips; pretty sure he’s also the one who tell others about your bravado back at the ship.”

You wanted to retort that, defying his claim and ask for proofs, but then you remember Hot Rod was the one who called out about your tendencies to spread your name. Why would he call you out like that, if it wasn’t him who spreads your name in the first place? You’re too charmed by his eyes to notice it.

So many unnoticed things. So many open opportunities.

Starscream eyed your musing face, clears his throat as he adjusting his standing position, “Well, the waiters will be here in two minutes. Would you like to go back to the hotel, or do you want to take a walk first?”

You looked up to look are his brown eyes, turning to golden hue every time the sun rays fall on them. Starscream looked back, eyebrow slightly arched up as he waits for your answer.

“It’s still early—let’s take a walk first.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

True to his words, you heard the touring bus nearing by when you’re about a kilometer away from the waterfall, hidden within the trees. Starscream told you not to mind them as they take care of Vern (which sounds like disposing a body to you), and ask you to pay attention to your steps.

“By the way, Starscream,” you asked again, avoiding rotten fruits on the ground as you walk under the trees’ shades, “The paintings in the hotel? What are they for?”

“Decorations, dear. I know the position is a little random, but—“

“Not that,” you waved his easy explanation away, “I mean, it feels like those paintings have stories in them. Besides, if they’re for decoration, wouldn’t it be better to put one tropical picture like beaches or fruits painting? There’s gotta be a reason you guys put up a bunch of mermen paintings instead, isn’t it?”

The stare he sent you for a brief moment at the mention of ‘beaches’ and ‘fruits’ told you Starscream is judging your internal decoration taste in his mind. But he didn’t say his judges out loud, instead, he holds one finger up and says, “First of all, they’re not mermen—they’re finformers.”

“Fin—what?”

“Finformers. I know, a little bizarre, but I’m about to explain it. And the very reason we hung those paintings is to honor the legend of this island.”

Your ears literally perked up at the mention of ‘legend’. “What legend?”

Starscream’s hand reached for a particularly thick branch, holding it up as he passes and on until you passed the branch too, “Long time ago, before mankind has settled their first king, there was another kind who is just like them, living under the sea.”

Turns out, Starscream possesses the same enticing voice as Knock Out when it comes to storytelling, and you find yourself pouring more focus to his voice than the road under your feet.

“They called themselves finformers, as fins would grow on them when they dive underwater and disappears when they walked on land. Don’t ask me about the terminology, please, because I’m just as lost as you—oops, muddy spots. Watch your shoes.

“Anyway, these beings have a shapeshifting ability, as I mentioned before, and lived an underwater life just like how humans do on dry land. Peacefully, I might add—until there’s this big, ugly, half-witted character appears to fuck things up for bigger power.”

He put a good measure of pressure on ‘big’ and ‘ugly’ words, as if he has a grudge against that character personally. “Bigger power? As in, more powerful magic?”

Starscream shook his head as he helps you jumped over a big puddle of mud, “’Bigger’ as in political power. I heard that guy used to be a lowly miner, then a gladiator—this kind is somehow similar to human, in a way—before he’s like ‘hey, let’s start a revolution and take the throne for ourselves!’ and proceed the mass murder against his own kind.”

A squeak escaped you when your left feet slightly slipped, surprising Starscream and caused him to scream too. “Sorry,” you peeped, shamefully, “I guess this is the part where the heroes came up, yes?”

Starscream snorts in a way that would offend anyone, “Well, if you want to call them that. These… so-called ‘heroes’, fought him back, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, all that jazz—but the damage they caused was as just big as his.

“The war lasted for generations. Finformers live for millions of years, but still, on every century, they have to settle down and start a family if they still want their race to exist—this, of course, caused most of their younglings spend their childhood training to fight each other, to kill each other, and stuff.”

“So like,” you gulped your saliva, questioning your own word of choice, “Living, soldier ammo?”

That earned a hum of agreement.

“But, if they only breed for once every a hundred years, even if every single of them breed, the chil—soldiers won’t last that long. Don’t they have some kind of rules for it or something?”

Starscream turned to you, tolerance flashed in his eyes, “If I wasn’t mistaken, one female finformers could hatch up to 30 eggs in every mating season.”

“30—oh.”

“Mh-hm. And of course, with long-ass lifespan and children ammo, the war went on, until one day, a soldier’s mate was killed.”

Finally, the final bush was wiped off the way, and in front of you is a beach, with indigo sea and orange sun descending from the sky. The salty scent of the sea filled your sense, brought by the gentle wind that blown to your face, as if to congratulate you for finding this place just in time. Suddenly Starscream sat down on a flat, round rock not far from where you stand, and he pats the rock next to him, gesturing you to follow the suit.

As soon as you did, he continues, “It wasn’t clear which fraction that soldier was from, but the only thing we know is that the soldier was furious about his mate’s death. He blamed the war, blamed the ‘hero’ fraction and the ‘bad guy’ fraction, blamed everything.

“The soldier wanted to stop the war, no matter at what cost, but he knows neither the leader of both sides would listen to him. So he improved—this soldier, who was also a skilled medic, uses all his resources to create a poison that’ll kill only the female side of the whole kind, so the others would know how he’d feel when his mate died before his eyes.”

The last five words were spoken in a softer manner that made your spine shivers in cold. You couldn’t find the charming aura he had maintains since the first time he got Vern under his boot until five words ago.

He’s now just sitting there, looking at something you couldn’t see with your physical eyes, and went silent for a good minute as he gazed the settling star. He took a shaky breath before he finishes the story, “Despite the similarity, female finformers’ physiology is completely different from their male counterparts. The poison worked, spread across the sea and attacking the females from inside. The remaining finformers could only watch as their mothers, aunts, partners, friends, sisters, daughters, cousins, and mate bleeds through every single hole they have in their body, internal organs boiled up by themselves as the effect of the poison.”

Starscream lost in his own story. You couldn’t blame him—that is a sad legend, even if it’s not real. Blinded by rage, the soldier killed half of the species to stop the war and gains his vengeance. His action must’ve pushed both of the leaders to stop the war at once, since the genocide has already guaranteed their extinction, and no mothers mean no children. No children, no soldiers—except that race has also evolved way further than mankind, being hermaphrodite or has cloning method or some sort.

 But… judging from how hard Starscream tried to hide his tears, you supposed finformers are not hermaphrodite, nor they have a method to clone themselves.

“Ah, yes, I almost forgot,” Starscream added, blinking away his tears as he pretends to wipe out his sweats, “after the whole genocide incident, the remaining males knew they have to find another, similar species to breed with if they want to keep existing. So, relying on their shapeshifting ability, they went to the dry land to take human brides, and this island is the place where the first human-finformer wedding was held.”

His boot tapped the sand beneath you, smirking in mischief as you proceed his words. That smirk, you decided, is annoying, but is better than the teary eyes he has a moment ago. “Huh,” you reply at last, “you’re all very romantic, aren’t you?”

“Yup. And would you look at the time—better get you back to the hotel before Ratchet poison my coffee tomorrow.”


	12. Another Thing to Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter this time :) I got final exam in, like, a week, sooo... may be it's gonna be long time before another chap emerge.

When you’re all back to the hotel, Ratchet didn’t poison Starscream’s coffee. Instead, he seemed more interested in yelling your ears off.

“DID YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND A **FRAGGIN** ’ THING OF YOUR SITUATION, (Y/N)???!!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, as the two of you showed up at the lobby stairs, with crumpled clothes and dirty shoes. The doctor’s wrinkles seemed to be deeper than you remembered, and his face is redder than Knock Out’s jacket. Other guests and staffs are more than happy to pass by as if nothing is happening.

“Do you,” he screeched in a lower voice, stomping his way to your frozen state, “do _you even have any idea what could’ve happe_ —“

“Nothing happened,” Starscream interrupted coolly, posing in front of you as your human shield before the furious older medic. Ratchet’s attention snapped to him, and Starscream continued, “I was with them the entire day, and the only inconvenience thing to happen was that one time (Y/N) stepped on a mud puddle.”

Ratchet tilted his head a little. Not in a curious manner, you noted, because that tiny head tilt actually reminds you to that one scene in Discovery Chanel documentary, about how an alpha wolf would move when it’s about to challenge another alpha.

“And why were _you_ with my patient?” he asked in tighter voice, eyes glowing with anger. Starscream merely lifted an eyebrow as he replies, “I was heading to the waterfall when I saw them splashing nearby. They’re lost, so I take them to have a walk around the trees before we’re going back to the hotel.”

You're 132% positive that Doc's about to explode from how Starscream's tone indicates he's taking your condition too lightly-taking all _his_ hard work to make sure you're back to your perfect condition too lightly. Before he could spit out any more retorts, you speak up, “Um, doc?”

His head snapped to you like how a hawk would to a squirming prey. The glow in those greenish blue eyes looked like they could unleash death beam at any moment and you’re actually scared this time—alas, it’s too late to take it back.

“I-I was bored at my room, so, uh, I l-left without telling anyone,” you gulped down your bitter saliva, and went on with your rambles, “Bu-but I got lost in, in the trees, wandering around for a while until S-Starscream found me near the waterfall. H-he did ask me if I wanted to go back to the hotel, b-but I said no, and I-I asked him to be my t-tour guide for a day.”

His tense gesture dropped a little, but it’s far from a relief. The burning anger now cooled down into a freezing disappointment that made your stomach churn in discomfort. Ratchet blinks at you for few times, and you waited for another yell, for another screeching about how reckless you’re. But the doctor only balled his fist and walked away from you, disappointment radiating from him like toxic radiation from a nuclear bomb.

“Ra—“

Strascream’s gloved hand reached your shoulder, effectively stopped the track you haven’t even start yet. “Let him cool it down—Ratchet has never been good on expressing himself. You might get hurt if you pushed him too far.”

You turned to Starscream, lightly gasping in disbelief, “Ratchet would never hurt me.”

“And how long exactly you have known him to state that?”

The reply washed over your tired head like a morning shower. Starscream's eyebrows are lifted in 'duh' way to you, but you're too distracted to notice his sass because _who are you to judge someone’s personality, when you’ve been barely known that someone?_ Old or not, Ratchet used to serve in the military. He has seen things you would never able to imagine, has done things beyond your darkest imagination—for God’s sake, he might even have PTSD and you would not be able to notice it until it’s triggered!

Fuck, you might’ve as well had triggered it. Ratchet had already have gone through rough things along Bee’s recovery, and you just have to pour the fuel into the fire.

_By God, what have you done?_

“Would you like to be escorted to your room?”

In a snap, you’re back to earth. Starscream is in front of you know, seemingly has been trying to get your attention since a minute ago. You shook your head gently, “N, no, I’ll be fine… what’s the schedule for tomorrow again?”

Starscream fished out his phone, scrolling around for a while before he answers you, “Breakfast at 8 and bungee jumping at 10. You coming?”

“Yeah.”

“Then better rest now, darling,” he tapped your shoulders playfully, “or you might get left behind again.”

You smiled at his remark, bid him good night as you walk toward the lift, waving one last wave to Starscream as the doors closing.

Now, you’re going to rest, because tomorrow you’re going to get up early before breakfast time, find Ratchet and then apologize to him.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun hasn’t come out yet, and the hotel is dead silent.

You forced yourself to get off the fluffy bed and go to the bathroom to take a bath and quickly pulling your sharpest look that don't-look-too-obvious-you're-pulling-your-sharpest-look—you have a feeling it’ll help Ratchet to accept your apology better.

But you’re not even five feet away from your own door yet when an obstacle came onto your path:

“(Y/N)? What’re you doing so early in the morning?”

Just right on the mouth of the hallway, there's Steve in his PJ’s (and mask still on) and a towel on his left shoulder, a bucket of bathing equipment on his right hand, stopped in his track as he sees you standing in front of your door, about to close it, fully awake and looking like you’re ready to impress someone who broke your heart in junior high school without being too obvious about it.

‘I’m sleep-walking’ excuse is not going to work with your appearance right now.

“Ah, hi—good morning, Steve!” you awkwardly greeted him, “What a beautiful day we’re having, eh?”

The waiter has his mask on, but you very much can see his deadpanned face as Steve replies, “This is 5 in the morning.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that—“

“The breakfast is three hours away, (Y/N). You shouldn’t be wandering around too early.”

"Haha, I know that! I'm just about to go to—“

"Go back to your room."

You bite your lip as you proceed his words. Steve wasn’t using his usual cheery, awkward little ray of sunshine when he said that, and you see his back is straighter than usual. The red glass over the eye slit on his mask seemed to glint for a split second and you can feel his stare burning on your skin. _Is he... angry?_

“Steve?”

“I apologize for my tone,” he repeated in a softer voice, “But you shouldn’t be too reckless. I know you’re almost fully recovered, but that doesn’t mean you could be running around in places you’ve never been before without anyone accompanying you. Bad things could happen, (Y/N), j-just like _when that scumbag who tri—“_

The last three words he hissed turned into a growl, and suddenly you’re feeling like you’re handling a cornered angry dog than a concerned friend. “Steve?” you moved forward, trying to reach him, “Hey, buddy, y’know I’m not hurt right?”

_“That’s not the pro—“_

“No, it’s not,” you agreed, because a cornered, angry friend (although that friend is acting like a threatened animal) does not like it when you disagree with them, “and what happened yesterday is my fault, and Ratchet had made me realize that I shouldn’t have done that. Which is why I’m sneaking around—well, tried to be sneaky—at this hour so I can meet Ratchet and apologize to him first before the breakfast.”

Steve’s shoulder slumped, and the towel fell down. You caught it clumsily as Steve asks, “R-Ratchet?”

“Yeah,” you nodded as you hand him the towel, offering him the best smile you could muster right now. If this was a manga, Steve would have sweat-drops dropping from his face rapidly. “Yo-you’re not planning to run away again?” 

A chuckle escapes your mouth before you answer him, “No, not for now at least. Just wanna find that sly old man and apologize, that’s all.”

And that’s also what Steve needs to be reduced from stiff masked waiter into a repeatedly bowing-apologizing, squeaky awkward friend you once know, lowering his head so deep you thought his mask would actually touch his knees. “Oh my god—Steve, that’s enough!” you half-heartedly yelled to him as he won’t stop chanting how sorry he is for raising his voice like that, “I know—I know I made everyone mad by disappearing for the whole day; Steve, seriously, stop!!”

You wanted to sound serious, but that’s a little hard to accomplish while you cannot stop the bubbling laughter in your voice as you physically try to stop his bowings. "Steve, gosh darn it, _sthopp_!!"

About five minutes later, Steve finally accepts the fact that you’re not offended by the tone he used earlier and offers to accompany you to Ratchet’s room. “I mean, I know you need time to be alone with him, but, uh,” he squirmed in his place, looking like a child trying to bargain with you so you would not tell his mom what did he do to her favorite vase, “let me escort you there, please? I promise I would not eavesdrop or anything—I promise.”

“Why would you be eavesdropping us?”

The question was meant to tease the masked waiter, but he froze like someone who got busted while making a sandwich with uncooked, frozen nugget and too many slices of cheese at 2:34 in the morning.

“Oh my god, Steve!” you faked a barking laugh, slapping him on the shoulder in a friendly manner, “I was just kidding, you goof—you’re so tense it’s silly!”

He awkwardly laughed along, and you laughed, laugh, laugh and laugh until your cheeks hurt. You dropped the matter and Steve escorted you to Ratchet room, cleverly discussing lunch menu all the way there as you pretending to be interested what kind of beverage would match with fried jellyfish.

Another suspicious thing to investigate, but for now, you’d delivery your apology first.

 

 


	13. New Friend Acquired!

By the eleventh unanswered knock on Ratchet’s door, you decided the doctor must not awaken yet. After all, it’s five pasts thirty in the morning—pretty sure you’re the only one who awoke aside from the waiters and probably Bee. With a sigh, you let your bums fell down onto the red carpet beneath, pulled your knees under your chin and lean against the cold wooden door.

Steve has already left minutes ago, long legs speedily carrying him to the nearby waiters’ bathroom with towel flapping as he jogs, like an undersized superhero’s cape. You can’t believe that guy actually capable of getting angry like that. Guess Starscream was right—you are not here long enough to judge anyone yet.

This morning, that smartphone of yours insisted that today is the third day since your last encounter with Nadya, but the pixelated screen of that brick-like satellite phone says it’s still the second day of your itinerary. You fished both out as you moved your legs into a crossing position to have a better look on the phones, each is held by your palm as you try to think what actually happened to them.

You’ve thought about the possibility of an extremely cooperated prank—that the reason behind the mismatch-ness of yours with everyone else’s sense of time is that they’re all agree to prank you altogether by settled their phone’s date into one day faster than yours, and someone sneaked into your room last night to re-settled your phone’s time settling. Whoever was that couldn’t find your satellite phone, that’s why your brick of a phone is one day behind every other phone.

But the other guests you asked about this keep looking at you funny when you told them to quit the ‘Twilight Zone’ prank and show you the true time of today—one of them, a red-head with nose that could be easily mistaken for a beak, actually got mad and threatened to splash you with her pineapple-coconut juice if you keep on accusing her of the silly prank she would never participate in. That scratched the prank-scenario from the list.

The second guess is the possibility of your phone had an error yesterday, causing the date to be delayed until the system inside fixed itself and corrected the date settings the day after. But then, if it indeed is the case, why does the satellite phone’s date stay different?

You slipped both smart and satellite phone back into your pocket and the holster beneath your baggy pants, back to hugging your knees and glued your face to them as you try not to listen to the tiny voice inside your head—in which sounds too eerily like Nadya’s, telling you how you shouldn’t even come here in the first place—but you did, and look what’ve become of you.

Something inside your stomach coiled, like when it did back at the grasshopper-less greenfield. This is an isolated tropical island, newly discovered and has almost zero information about. Why did you ever wanted to go here again?

Oh, yeah, because you wanted a new experience aside from picking a new TV series to be obsessed with!

 _Should’ve known this would happen; should’ve stayed and finished all season of that show instead; should’ve gone into a hibernation instead_ , and so many other _should’ve_ running in your brain like the credit roll of a movie, but it’s all too late now. You’re here, surrounded by hundreds of unfamiliar faces, and kinda-familiar faces you still couldn’t believe entirely. Your heart skips a beat upon the realization that there’s no real ally for you in this island—you’ve seen how Starscream hid his strength beneath his sass, you knew Bee is hiding something, Steve is not as safe as you expected him to be, and you don’t even know if those guests are really guests.

Tears falling from your eyes, dampening your face and knees. _What if Nadya was right?_ What if something really bad is going on, and you’re already waist-deep in it?

But then the doorknob clicked open, and those thoughts quickly moved aside as you remembered the real reason you’re sneaking around in the crack of dawn to Ratchet’s room.

The door only revealed the quarter of the inside room when Ratchet realized there was someone standing in front of him. He looked fresh, graying hair slicked back and no frown on his face, until his eyes met yours through his glasses, then each end of his lips dropped.

Time feels stopped as you scrambled your words for the most acceptable apology, and your brain is having some kind of a short-circuit right at the moment, so you just stood there, locking gaze with the doctor while your mouth opens and closes like seal zoo waiting for its reward after performing such a flawless show.

None appeared, so you just roll with it.

“Ratchet, I’m so—“

“Why are you crying?”

You looked at him, dumbfounded at his question, until you remembered you’ve been crying from the thoughts you’re thinking earlier. Ratchet decided your answer is taking too long, took your hand gently and led you inside his room.

Ratchet’s room is exactly what you’d expect—everything is pure white, save for the brown bed frame and a hazel swivel chair. It’s all organized chaos, you can tell by how clean the floor, while the two desks of the room are like a miniature of wrecked city with all the tools and papers and equipment are piled according to their size or functions, and the unreadable scribbles on colorful sticky notes glued to the wall.

The old doctor silently told you to sit by the side of his bed and went to his closet, pulling out a bottom drawer and crouching as he starts rummaging it. “Did something hurts?” Ratchet asked as he try to find whatever he has in the mind, “Is it your ribs? Or ankle? Talk to me, it’s okay—I’m not gonna yell at you again.”

He talks to you with a tone that you wouldn’t recognize as the one that belongs to the Ratchet you knew—all soft and hushed, gentle yet cold, as if you’re a car crash victim and he’s a stranger doctor trying to calm you down. Ratchet turned his head to checks on you just in time to see you wiping tears from your face.

With a stethoscope around his neck, Ratchet rushed to your side with a surprising speed, the cold piece of equipment wanders all over your upper chest while Ratchet’s frustration increased visibly, “What’s wrong? What is it?”

“Ratchet, I-I’m sorry,” you blurted out, choked in the middle of a sentence by your tears, “I was reckless, I’m sorry I-…”

“What—“

“I didn’t think you’d be that angry,” you continued, grasping your own hands for comfort, braved yourself and look at the doctor in his eyes, “I just w-wanted to go out and all, didn’t me-meant to go for the whole day. I’m so—“

“Wait,” Ratchet interrupted, holding one hand up while the other one is pinching the spot between his eyebrows, his own eyes are shut close, “wait, wait, wait. So you’re telling me, that you came crying in front of my door at six in the morning because you thought I’m angry at you?”

_No, actually I was crying because I scared myself with scary thoughts that could be what actually is going on, and then I was overwhelmed by the facts and regrets and I was really emotional since I woke up too early and haven’t eaten anything yet. Also—_

“Y-You went without saying anything yesterday, and Starscream said I should let you be, so I thought you’re mad at me or something…”

“No, no, no,” Ratchet somehow sounds even more frustrated, getting up with two fingers massaging his forehead, “Well, I mean, sure, I’m kinda pissed off, but—I mean, I was angry, but not at you; it was—it was for Starscream,” the doctor sucked a deep breath, putting his hands on his hips.

“I’m not really good at talking, okay? But I’m not angry at you. It-It’s just,” he waved his hand in the air, as if to summon the words that’d explain his means out of thin air. But those words never appear, so he just looked at you in the eyes and goes, “Sometimes, our Co-Captain is a jerk.”

You wiped your snot, fix your, hair and ask, “So… y-you’re not mad?”

Ratchet shrugs, “Not anymore, I guess. I told you I’m not really good at this, it’s just I was really j-je—”

You couldn’t make out the last word because you’re too busy lunging yourself onto Ratchet, trapping the surprised doctor in a surprise hug. You felt him tensed in your arms, and you do realize that you’re literally trespassing his personal space, but you’re just too relieved to care about those.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, (Y/N), huh?”

You looked up from your cellphone to meet a pair of eyes that shine bright like neon lights. They belong to a stocky man with square jaw, grey hair, slightly scarred face, and mischievous smile, dressed in grey jacket, white shirt, and black pants, “Wheeljack, at your service,” he introduced himself with Texas accent, then gesturing the seat next to yours, “is this seat taken?”

“Oh? Ah! N-no! It’s not taken—sure, go ahead,” you said as moving away, watching the man contently seated himself down like a smug cat.

The said bus is still waiting for other 42 guests, parked behind the hotel along with the other 2 buses, and since your condition no longer needs any intense doctors medical attention (despite the cracked rib that still halfway recovering itself), you can hop into the bus faster than you did before. Besides, since things between you and Ratchet have been straightened, you now have acquired his and Knockout’s blessing to walk by your own (thought KnockOut insisted you’ll be needing his help today) and do things as you like as long as you don’t break anything, resulting you to meet the man behind that white wine accident from the other day right now.

“Heard a lot about you from Roddy,” there’s an imaginary hay on the corner of his mouth; you can’t help but see it with your mind’s eye—as he leans to his other armrest to have a better look on you, “saved Screamer from a bunch of drunk lassies, broke some ribs and all.”

_You and your mouth, Captain._

“Well, yes, that’s me. You see, uh,” you gulped a sip of embarrassment, slipping back your phone into your pocket, “there are times when I’m could be, really…well, impulsive.”

Wheeljack stared at you, and you stared back. That addition was entirely unnecessary, the fuck you said that for, you thought in cringe, but since you’ve said that…

You shut your eyes for a while, trying to chase the cringe feeling away, and continue, “and when I’m impulsive, things tend to go cheesy. Like, real cheesy…”

If there to be a real hay on his mouth, Wheeljack would have dropped it by the way his mouth slightly gaped to you, “So, the bravado back then just some pure ‘I-can-do-it-so-I-will-do-it’?”

You bite your inner cheeks, shut your eyes again, give him another cringed smile and nod to his question.

The barked laugh was heard before you opened your eyes, and when you did, you see Wheeljack puts his fingers over his eyes like Ratchet did when you come crying to him at 6 in the morning. Only this time he was laughing out of disbelief, ceasing a little cringe feeling from your stomach as you faked a chuckle so other guests wouldn’t be thinking that Wheeljack was laughing at you.

“Goodness, kid!” he slapped your shoulder lightly, still wheezing when he talks, “Bet you ain’t gonna throwing your body that fast if you knew who was Starscream used to be, back in his military days…”

“Lemme guess; he caused all those scars?”

The engineer puckered his lips into a pout of disagreement, “Not quite, but as bad.”

“As bad as strong-ass handmade white wine?”

Wheeljack eyed you through his squinted eyes, wiggling his index finger to you playfully, “Ain’t my fault y’all can’t handle my taste. Maybe I should’ve made red wine instead…”

“Just make it weaker this time, please,” you said, and before he has the chance to reply, your question was voiced first, “What’s a mechanic doing here, anyway? Are you on your break?”

Then Wheeljack looks at you like he never sees anything like you before, “How did you knew I’m a mechanic?”

_Steve told me._

“Well, based on the scratch on your fingers,” you put your smug smile on, confidence filling you up as you fixed you sitting style into BBC Sherlock Holmes’ style, “the black tip on your nails, and engine oil scent… it’s an easy thing, really.”

Wheeljack squints until all that left from his eyes is a pair of mint blue thin lines on his face, “Really? I’ve been scrubbed everything for two hours—not even that redhead kid could sniff nothing from me.”

“Is that really matter?” you kept your cool on, changing the topic, “What matter is… you haven’t answered my question.”

 He spat out the imaginary hay (okay, he didn’t really spit it out, but your mind’s eyes keep seeing that) and grumbles, “Nahh, nothing ya guests should be concerning about. Just some minor engine thing in this bus, that’s all.”

“…the bus is not about to blow out, right?”

You knew there’ll be no explosion today, but if the man of the engineering and mechanical factor of this island is here too, that’s mean he’ll be needed sometime in the near future in case the bus engine is acting weird, and you couldn’t help but feeling concerned about it. But then Wheeljack flashed you a playful yet assuring smile, and that’s how you know things are going to alright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For now, at least.

 

 


	14. Lil' Blast from the Past

The Candy Crush game on your phone interrupted by the beeps of its dying battery. Big, significantly noticeable letters of ‘PLEASE RECHARGE NOW’ are filling the screen, and the warning light blinks like it’s about to explode.

You gave the notification a stink eye, then a jealous one to the snoring mechanic beside you. The cellphone slipped back into your pocket with a puff of disappointed breath, and you looked away to the bus window, to the passing greens and browns of the scenery.

The bus has been going for three hours to reach the island’s cliff—today schedule is bungee jumping, and to your surprise, the remaining guests (excluding Vern—couldn’t see the fucker everywhere, couldn’t care less where did he go to tho) are excited about the activity, despite their age variations. Even the redhead that almost splashed you with her drink started to brags on how graceful she was on her first bungee jump once KnockOut announced the schedule.

Wheeljack had entertained you with his war-days stories for the first hour, about his special squad and his old pals back at the day. Turns out his scars weren’t even given by his enemies—they’re all the result of his experiments that are mostly include explosive materials and flying sharp shards—in which doesn’t surprise you at all. He and the driver, Bulkhead, is also close friends since they’re used to do on missions together, though nowadays they’re not that close since they have their own shifts and jobs.

That didn’t stop them to have some Boys Night Out together in some other times though, and turns out that blasted white wine was inspired by Bulkhead’s favorite poison.

“But don’t tell him that,” he warned you in whispering voice, as if Bulkhead could hear him among the sounds of the bus’s engine noises and the guests’ chattering, “Bulk didn’t know shit about my wine, but that guy wears his heart on his sleeve—he’ll feel bad over shits that have nothing to do with ‘im.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have made such a strong wine.”

And then the amusing conversation spiraled down to Wheeljack’s series of a yawn, and at the second hour, he’s already fell asleep while telling you about that one time when he and Bulkhead were outnumbered by a team of the enemy.

According to Bulkhead, the ride is 3 hours long—which means there’s still an hour and half left before you’ll reach the destination, and that silly gadget has already run out of battery. The bus rides up to the higher ground, to the top of the highest cliff of this island. “Should’ve brought that power bank along,” you hissed to the reflection on the bus window, mourning over the tiny portable charger you left in your baggage. Most of the guests have already fallen asleep, save for the lovebird in the back seat, the hyped brunette in front of them, and you.

There is no a single bird to be seen, as usual. The sky is empty, except for those giant white floating pieces of cotton. The trees are as green as envy would be, spread wide beneath the hiking road. It covers the entire island, excluding the four big rivers you’ve seen from this height. You idly wonder which one they used for kayaking in the other day.

You turned from the scenery to look at the snoring Cowboy beside you.  There’s a tiny, sticky river streaming from his gaped mouth, and his rough, calloused hands are lying uselessly beside him. You leaned away to take a better look at him, and began to count his scars.

Wheeljack is…old, you realized with a little surprise, proven by the faint lines on his neck and the corners of his mouth. Perhaps a little bit younger, if not in the same age as Ratchet. He has more gray hair than Ratchet did, but you haven’t noticed it until now. Maybe because you’re too charmed by his toothy grin—it was really bright, as bright as Bee’s expressive eyes and Smokescreen’s smile combined.

Or his thick, dark eyebrows, that’ll make him looks scary if not for his personality, and the fact that Wheeljack drools in his sleep.

There are three light scars on Wheeljack’s lips, two that formed an ‘X’ on his right eyebrow. His lips are chapped; kissing him would feel like kissing a sandpaper.

Wait-

“A lil’ bit longer and I’ll think yer ‘bout to kiss me,”

“W-what,” you stuttered, face red and cheeks warm, “what’re you talking ‘bout?”

Wheeljack opened his eyes lazily as he grins, but nothing comes out from his mouth. He dropped the subject, but by the smug smile he’s having right now, Wheeljack’s aware of the things he caused in your chest. Then the bus finally stopped, and Bulkhead hollered the permission for everyone to get up from their seats.

“Line up and try not to push each other while I unload your stuff!” he said as he jumped out of the bus, but of course, none of the guests heeded his words and scrambled like a pack of freed lambs.

You stood up, getting ready to get out from your seat, but Wheeljack, whose body is completely blocking your exit, won’t move a muscle at all. Just sitting there, thighs spread and arms behind his head while the guests have already crowded the bus floor like moving sardines in a small can.

You stared at him, one eyebrow up to gestures your question, and he stared back like he wasn’t blocking your only way out from your seat. “Are you planning to move any time soon?”

“Naaah,” he yawned widely, “No need to rush things. Just wait for these people to get out first. Trust me, it’ll be better than getting stepped on ya’ feet.”

Bah! You thought, but you knew he’s right. These people were slow to get on the bus, even slower when exiting it. With the engine completely turned off, it’s hot in the bus, and it’s about to get hotter if you force your way out of this swarming moving bodies. Not to mention the sticky, sweaty arms that would be planted all over you… _ugh_!

So you sit there, watching the guests from the first and second bus getting out and lining up into a single queue. The bright red dot in the far away front unmistakably is KnockOut, leading the crowd as usual, with Megatron with his hands behind his back and eyes that watch like a judgmental mother in law over her young daughter in law.

_Wait, has Megatron always been 7ft tall?_

You remembered the first time you saw him—an albino man that is about 6,4 ft. tall, grey hair and half-heartedly buttoned-up shirt, so you glued your nose to the window, trying to take a better look of a guy with each shoulder that bigger than your head.

He’s not Megatron, you decided because Megatron definitely has scars all over his face, while this one is supporting a clean one. And his hair is black, at least from this distance.

“What’s so interestin’?”

Wheeljack called from his seat, haven’t even move an inch away from his earlier spot. Your index finger poked the window glass, to the giant man, “He’s huge.”

There’s an amused snort came from his nostril before he replies you, “A darn huge asshole, I tell ya’.”

But you didn’t get to ask why would Wheeljack calls someone asshole because he’s finally getting up when the last guest stepped out, stretching his body to his heart content. You quickly got out too, eager to take a fresh breath of mountain’s air, and right at the moment, Wheeljack thinks it’d be funny to suddenly grip your hand.

_You came to me, acting all cute and begging me to entertain you._

Your heart kicks upon the contact. A lightning struck your nerves, from the wrist Wheeljack is holding, burning feelings crept in light speed to your brain-

_You should be thanking me, you little stupid fuck-_

The brain screams, Wheeljack panics. There’s a distant sound of heavy things being dropped suddenly.

_The air was fresh, yet you’re struggling to breathe as the filthy being is upon you, clawing your clothes and pants. You wanted to scream, but your brain is too focused to get rid of him to listens._

There are arms on your own, gentle yet firm, meant to calm you down. Instead, they triggered your fear even further, g _et them off! Get them off! Please, don’t—_

“Guys?”

You blinked, catching up your breaths (when did you breathe so harshly?). The back of your neck is wet by your sweat, and Wheeljack’s fingers are no longer around your wrist. He was just as startled, and when you turned around, Bulkhead is standing on the bus entrance, looking concerned, “Is everything okay? I heard a scream.”

Scream? “What scream?” you asked back. Bulkhead looked past your shoulder, to Wheeljack, and the mechanic looks at you like you have a fresh stab wound on your left chest. “(Y/N), it was you,” Wheeljack answered, lips flat in worry, “You screamed when I held your hand—‘m sorry ‘bout that. Was just messin’ ‘round. You ‘kay?”

You sucked a deep breath, calmed your nerves and silence the remains of your scream in your brain. “Ye-yeah,” you gave them a shaky smile and wave your hand, “i-it’s fine. Just a little startled, nothing to worry about.”

Bulkhead doesn’t look convinced, and Wheeljack even less does. “You sure ‘bout that?”

“I am!” you faked a cheerful tone as you exit the bus, walking as normal as you could towards the guest crowd. Neither Bulkhead or Wheeljack followed you afterward, and you knew better than to assume they’d let go of this that soon.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun shines as bright as how those high school animes picture it to be, and the heat stings more than you’d prefer. But that’s okay, really—your legs are still shaky when you walk, and your hands are colder than the rest of your arms. The fear still lingers, Vern’s filthy ghost touches revived itself on your skin, crawling like a bunch of invisible cockroaches up to your neck. Everything feels surreal, but the heat keeps you in touch with reality, despite the uncomfortable sensation it creates for everybody else.

Thankfully, the waiters had already prepared about 9 large picnic table, with extra wide umbrella and cool drinks on each table, lining up before the bungee jump platform structure, like a line of an oasis in this green desert. But before any of you could reach the tables, the alluring voice of your red MC booms through the speakers.

“Heads up, ladies and gentlemen!” KnockOut greeted you as he, and someone you haven’t seen before, emerged from the shade of the bungee jumping structure, “Who’s ready to jump… and fell straight to my heart?”

The crowd answers him louder than 100 Ratchets would, and you can see why. KnockOut is wearing a red raglan that hugs his body tightly, with black sleeves revealing a little part of fire tattoo on each of his arms you haven’t seen before, dark Gucci shade sat on his hair and a pair of matching black jeans made him looks like a luxury you couldn’t afford. It’s a miracle no one had attempted any assassination to you when you have this guy doting you in your recovery period.

The other person, Wheeljack's asshole (let's hope not in literal way) is beside him stood way taller than KnockOut, a literal giant beside an average-height guy, with a strong jaw and dark hair that has several white strikes on the sides, three-piece suit he wore doesn’t faze him at all, despite the weather—although it’s undeniable that suit made him looks really sharp and intimidating. Intimidatingly sharp. You can’t really guess his age, with white hair on thirty-something face, but he could be slightly older than 35.

“Lovely!” those perfect white teeth shone as KnockOut shouts back, “And as you can see, our devoted waiters had prepared these tables for you. Each for ten people, along with drinks to counter this heat,” he gestured the tables on his left and right, “and my partner today, Ultra Magnus the Head Guard, would be watching after your safety along with his crew, so please, enjoy yourself, and jump straight into my love.”

The screams that followed were enough to rival an earthquake. Maybe you should have KnockOut to check your hearings later.

But KnockOut’s time in the highlight didn’t last as long as the previous one.

Ultra Magnus quickly grabs the mic before KnockOut could do another show, and his deep, authoritative voice quickly diverts the crowd’s attention faster than you’d imagine, remembering the MC had the same effect to the guests as sirens do to sailors.

“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen,” British accent thick in his voice, Ultra Magnus talks in a way that left no room for discussion. He paused until he's sure everyone is paying attention, and everyone is fast enough to catch up with his cue. 

“As the doctor had told you, I am Ultra Magnus, the Head of the Guard crew. Today, considering the potential of risk this activity could provide, I have prepared a special squad to watch after you for this activity, and I am looking forward to your cooperation—in which is do as you told and not wandering around without close supervision from the crew, staff or the waiters. For safety reasons, you will be divided into seven groups, six people for each group, and six only. I expect no commotion nor disruptive behavior, either towards the crew, staff, waiters nor against each other. One must not go alone, nor to mess around with any equipment. If you happen to notice something that is out of ordinary, you are to report immediately to the nearest crew, staff, or the waiters and make nor ruckus from it. Any non-cooperative behavior is to be suspended and reported, no excuse will be tolerated. Are we clear?”

In the first seconds, no one answers him directly. They're only nodding and murmuring in agreement, some even asking what was he talking about. Pretty sure the lovebirds in front of you are not listening at all, by how deep they are in their own world.

Ultra Magnus waited for exactly twenty seconds before clearing his throat and voices his threat, “Do I need to repeat everything from the start?”

The crowd replied less than a second. The collective voices of ‘We understands’ are emerged at once, creating a human version of white noise, while you could only muffle your laugh as Ultra Magnus is wearing his restrained version of a smug face. Excluding the earlier accident, you're sure this is going to be interesting.

 

 

 

 


	15. Quick Zap to The Head

If you gaze too long into the void, the void will gaze back.

You stared at the ‘42’ number on the rough-surfaced piece of paper on your palm, pout intensify. It'll be not so bad if there were 100 guests, but with 42 people left, the thought of being in the last group to jump off while other guests are already refreshed and back in the buses is not exactly your best thought.

A friendly Asian journalist on vacation, Cindy Mu, told you that the kayaking from yesterday was ended earlier than planned because many people had been injured thanks to their own carelessness—which is why you couldn’t find KnockOut yesterday, and why Ratchet was not chopping down the trees to find you in the woods since they’re too busy tending 58 guests, ranging from twisted ankles to broken arms; no wonder there’s much less of the guests than yesterday’s number.

(Yet your name still managed to catch the last number)

And also resulted in the Head Guard to demanded requested numbers that determine which guest’s turn to participate and which guest that has to sit down nicely without wreaking havoc nor commotion so that no one would get hurt again.

“Bah, people,” you muttered as you bottom up your Coke, feeling the carbonated drink burns your throat nicely, “No wonder I can’t find Ratchet anywhere since I got off the bus. If I have to watch after more than 50 _fully grown_ people to make sure they won’t push each other while lining up, I’d rather fake my death instead.”

Cindy hummed thoughtfully. The 4 other guests that are supposed to be your group’s members had gone to be their favorite person before your group’s turn, but you stayed at your current table to avoid unnecessary contact for a while, and Cindy stayed because she’s already too comfy to move away.

So here you are, gossiping about stuff and all, since both of your phones died, and that satellite phone doesn’t include any gaming application.

“But Doctor Ratchet would come today,” she told you as she sips her iced lemonade, “Right after he, and I quote, ‘make sure these whiny brats will not ruin their bandages’,” then she used her straw to stir her lemonade again, trying to rouse more sweet flavor from the unmixed sugar at the bottom of her glass, “He’s pretty dedicated, eh?”

“Yeah,” you agreed, taking another sip of your coke. The sun still shines brightly, this time without fluffy with clouds to cover earth from its merciless rays. The only protection for you were the large umbrellas above your heads. The jumping platform is built on the west, wasting its shade to covers the cliff beneath when it could cover the guests on east instead. Sometimes the breeze came, blowing dry wind in your direction.

The waiters, thankfully now in purple shirt and black shorts (or you’ll write a complaint letter to Megatron for practically enslaving his staff), are still walking back and forth either to serve the awaiting guests or to help first ten guest preparing their equipment and mentality before jumping from 32ft height to the streaming river below. You think you heard one blonde told a waiter to told her mom she still loves her, despite the last fight she had with her. The waiter nods in an assuring manner, so friendly close you think he’d be starting to petting her locks.

“By the way, how did you know that much?”

“Oh, honey,” Cindy flicked a stray hair from her round face, looking even more proud of herself, “When looking for information for things you have no idea of, you just have to find the right person to talk with.”

Suddenly Cindy lifts her right arm and waves it to someone behind you. You whipped your head around, half expecting Hot Rod, Steve or Starscream to wave back, but instead, you found the buff version of Steve, visibly startling when he notices the wave is indeed for him.

From your previous encounter, you thought Robert would have gone rigid and flee away, like a blushing virgin. Instead, you watch as Robert hesitatingly lifts his right arm and waves back, like an oversized socially awkward sentient teddy bear.

“That—that’s Robert,” you stuttered, because your brain refuses to acknowledge the strict waiter you met on the first day of itinerary just waved back to the cute girl in front of you, “that’s Robert.”

“Oh, you knew each other?” Cindy tilted her head elegantly without any hint of being shocked in her tone. Then she stirs her lemonade again, looking thoughtful as she puts her chin on her palm, “Mmm, I hope you don’t mind. I’m planning to take him out.”

“Him? Robert?” you asked back, even more surprised than before, “Do-Does he even know what’s that means? Beside in assassination context?”

“Eh, I think not,” Cindy replied, this time with genuine concern in her voice slightly furrowed eyebrows, “When I asked for his number, he gave me his, eh, recognition number.”

“Huh?”

“R-1283,” she told you in a flattened tone, “As in, Star Wars' R2D2.”

You snorted in the thought of a cylinder robot version of Robert, with its own metallic faceplate that looks just like the waiters’ mask, painted in black and purple. The most adorable yet strict android space to ever grace the Jedi.

“Well, I think you might have a chance,” you said after your wheezes died down, “If you managed to pry such an information from him, you might be able to take out that over-strict waiter.”

The red grin grew into an even more mischievous looking smirk, “Oh, he’s strict all right,” Cindy said, leaning forward to you like a vixen in a bar about to gets free drinks. “But if you push the right buttons—“

“—then the stick in his ass would finally come out.”

Your drinks almost fell from the table as a stocky figure suddenly jumps onto the empty spot on your right on the bench, just somersaulting his way in like that. The rude comment belonged to that person, who now is biting a real dried herbaceous plant you couldn’t name, making himself comfortable as he grabs one of the canned root beer from the cooler box, “Howdy darlin’.”

While Cindy whistled for his stunt, interested enough to shifts her sitting position into a more appealing one, you’re crunching your nose by how filthy his clothes are. There are oil spots on his white shirt and pants, also a black streak across his right cheek. He’s reek of oil and metal, and it suits him so much.

 “Hello, cowboy,” Cindy replied back as Wheeljack spits out the plant to open the can. “I haven’t seen you before. May I have a name?”

“It’s Wheeljack, doll,” he told her before finishing the content in three gulps, slamming the empty can on the table afterward, “But I don’t mind bein’ called ‘Cowboy’.”

Despite how everything he does seems like excluding you from the conversation, you noticed that, as Cindy giggles, Wheeljack puts his elbows on the table, about ten inches away from your own. Every time he moves, like when he’s reaching for the cooler box on your left, or when he’s parkoured his way onto the seat—there was zero skin contact between you at all, despite being less than a foot away from you. He’s being careful.

“Say, lass,” his hands are crossed on this polished wooden table to lean forward to Cindy, “I’m kinda havin’ some difficulties with ma’ babe over there,” his thumb jerked to the spot where the buses are parked, “and I coulda use some help from your friend here. Mind if I borrow ‘em?”

Cindy's eyes lighted up like cat's eyes on wiggling toy. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, leaning away from Wheeljack to put a distance between them, “It’s kind of lonely here, eh? (Y/N) has been accompanying me for half hour now, and I’m not in the mood to look for another seat-mate.”

Wheeljack squints his eye on her, so Cindy tilts her head in a challenging manner. “Ya’ serious?”

Her red lips broke into a tantalizing grin, “Do I look like I’m not?”

You took another sip from your coke bottle, hoping your phone was not so fast to die so you can play with it instead of being in the middle of these players. This is not healthy for your sexuality.

They were engaged in a staring contest for a minute, before Wheeljack finally lets out a heavy breath and put his hand down, “I’ll give ya lil’ Robby’s number.”

“Sold!”

“That’s cheap, Cindy.”

But just like how other journalist trade something for the juiciest info they could get their hands on, Cindy lets you go as soon as she finished writing down Robert’s number.

  

* * *

 

 

“Why do you even have Robert’s number?”

The bus Wheeljack was fixing was, fortunately, parked under the shadiest spot under the trees, or your hands will be burning from the heated metal toolbox Wheeljack told you to hold. Never mind the sunburn—you probably will get heatstroke in the first ten minutes once you step out of the trees’ shade. Global warming is getting real serious these days.

And you knew Wheeljack wasn’t bribing Cindy to give you to him for this; standing beside him while the mechanic himself is whistling as he dips half whatsoever inside the bus. You have a bad feeling it was about the stunt you pulled back at the bus. You should have run away the moment Wheeljack joined your table.

 (Although you can’t help but feel relieved for the changes; you have been talking to Cindy for 30 minutes, and you are actually intimidated by her. The energy she’s radiating was too dangerous and you’re too close.)

 “Robby’s like the lil’ version of that Ultra Asshole,” Wheeljack replied, still bending over the bus engines, “thinking he’s holier than any sentient being in this island, but if he’s lotta more helpful an’ got some manners, not bad to keep 'round—‘m not surprised of his catch.”

You lifted an eyebrow for Wheeljack choice of word, “Cindy?”

Wheeljack hummed in agreement, extending a hand, “Spanner. The third from left pocket. Yer’ left.”

The spanner he asked looks like a tool for Stuart Little’s car, but you decided to ask for something else instead as you hand him the tool, “No offense, but does Robert had ever dated before?” because he's seriously reminded you to that one strict friend that always home before 9 p.m, never drinks, and separate their garbages religiously. If Robert turns out as a vegan, you woulnd't be surprised.

“All those waiters are prudes, (Y/N), thanks to their ol’ Megsy. Made ‘em too busy to serve to even find some holes ta’ fuck.”

“Wheeljack!”

“Or to get fucked.”

“Not any better!”

His laughs are as just wild, barking and hoarse, but says nothing more as he starts focusing on his work, pulling this and that, cleaning those tubes and this filter.

Then the silence is back again, but this time it was filled with the little pings and dings, metals clunking with each other as Wheeljack’s calloused hands move them around. You’d think this island is dead for the lack of its creaking insects and twitting birds, denied by the distant screaming of the guests from the bungee platform structure, and the streaming river beneath. The breeze is still dry, chasing those floating pieces white cotton away. Hot air caressing the thick leaves, plucking out the dead ones out of the bunch, their frictions are making noises, whispering intangible words to you. Words that would scare you away.

“(Y/N)?”

Your body gave an instinctive jerk, hooked your thoughts and pulling them back to earth. You blink and Wheeljack is so close to you now, wearing the same concerned face as the one you saw before, but less intense this time.

“Sorry—lost in my thought,” you mumbled, scrambling the toolbox to distract your mind, “what do you need, hammer, spanner, screw?”

“I need ta’ know why ya’ look so damn scared.”

Wheeljack has his back leaned to the bus front, hands wiping each other from oil stains with a piece of dirty old rug, “I’ve heard about you from the waiters, Roddy, K.O, Sunshine, Bee, Smokey—“

“Sunshine?”

“That’s how I call Ratchet. Fuck, even that damn Screamer got a thing for ya, praisin’ yer’ bravery like some ol’ warrior or somethin’. An’ that clicky brat, Steve, won’t stop talkin’ about you every time I met him.”

The mechanic took one step closer, and you take one step back, flinching. Wheeljack frowns upon your reaction.

“Who was it?” he asks without skipping a beat, but your heart does. The cold hand is back, grips your heart like a snake snatching an unsuspecting mouse. You can tell Wheeljack is being serious right now, and you’re right about the eyebrows—it made him looks like he could kill a man with one hit to the chest.

_He knew, then why is he asking who was it?_

“Your reaction gave it off,” he answers your unvoiced question, “and (Y/N), I’ve been in war, alrite?” he starts with a calm tone, clearing his throat to find a better intonation, “I’ve seen things. I’ve seen my folks with blades through their heads and chest, have seen my sisters in arms exploded before my eyes; I’ve seen what war did to Bee, how long it took for ‘im to speak again.”

He pauses to lock his gaze with yours, and you can’t look away. Just staring into the abnormally bright eyes in tree’s shade, fidgeting with the toolbox in your hands. You want to run away, but your feet won’t listen to you. “So when I see someone’s got all twitchy like that, (Y/N), I know something happe—“

“Starscream had taken care of him.”

Wheeljacks tilts his head for your sudden reply, but he lets you to continue.

“I-I don’t want to, uh, go on the full detail, but everything is taken care now. I’m okay, really. So you don’t have—you don’t have to dote on me like Ratchet or KnockOut—well, I did got some injuries, but they're not as worse now, so you d—“

And then you looked up, staring right into Wheeljack’s aquamarine-colored eyes (a shade lighter than Ratchet’s) who is now standing too close—so close that his toes are only two inches away from yours.

Your brain didn’t even have the time to proceed what happened, but your body did, starting from the legs, then your lungs suddenly went out energy to suck air. Wheeljack was faster, and grabs your shoulders to hold you on the spot. Your lungs kicked off upon the contact, your throat choked by your own voice—the panic exploded, but the explosion didn’t make itself known, because your brain is too preoccupied by the feeling of Wheeljack’s logs-for-hands on your shoulders.

You just stood there, with insides heating up, skin is freezing. The mechanic never breaks the eye contact, almost not blinking at all, and you can faintly feel his fingers gently massaged the flesh beneath his palms.

“I won’ call that okay,” he mumbled, slowly taking his hands off your shoulder. Your breath is back to its usual rate by, a drop of sweat rolled off your right temple. “But it’s ain’t dangerous either."

Then he went silent, staring into your soul with hooded eyes. Why can't you look away?

And thus he smiled again, with those bright, white teeth. He says, "But there's nothing to be scared of when yer' ol' Wheeljack's around, alrite?"

You didn’t remember either you answered him by nods or words. Whichever it is, the answer satisfied him because Wheeljack finally stepped back, took his toolbox from your hands, and send you to Cindy again with a dizzy sensation in your head.


	16. Brightest Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyyyyyyyy I'm back XD Not as fast as before, yeah, i know that. My house assistant quits last month, so half of the house chores now were my responsibilities until my mom finally hired another house assistant last week. Beside, my doctor told me to go swimming for 3 times a week to fix my hip ache and recently I'm trying to do my new skin routine because apparently stress can cause black spots on your face and I've been trying to regain my pink lips again after being asked 'OMG r u sick??' for the last 9 months for my pale lips.
> 
> But yeah, I'm back. Enjoy :)

*(M/N) = Middle name

 

 

 

  
The only thing that left there is your bottled Coke, with tightened cap and no longer as cold as the first time you took it out of the box. Cindy was nowhere to be seen, and funny enough, a passing waitress told you neither she or other waiters could find Robert since ten minutes ago. “It’s really weird,” the waitress with ‘Jess’ on her name tag added, “Robert is our Head, and he’s always at wherever we are at the time.” She’s tall, an inch shorter than Steve, but taller than you, with dark skin and boyish-cut hair; if not for her mask, you’d mistake her as Nadya with short hair. She taps the part of her mask that would be her lips without that metallic smooth faceplate on, thinking, “But, well, who am I to question the boss, right?”

  
You have your assumptions, from the safest ones to the ones that belong to NSFW tags, but Cindy could be back to the other bus to grab the foundation tube she left behind, and Robert could’ve gone back to hotel because Megatron needs someone to shines his shoes, so you played safe and tell her nothing aside from a sympathetic nod. Jess then excuses herself, leaving you and your not-so-cool anymore bottled Coke.

  
It’s a little bit too late, but when you realize it, your skin has to sweat less than before, and the breeze is not that dry anymore. There are only two groups left, and the other group sat on the farthest tables from yours, along with your own members who looked more comfortable with them.

  
There’s a small voice from your heart that urges you to get over there and join them. After all, they’re your group mate. But then another voice told you not to, because it would be real awkward if you just go over there and introduce yourself in the middle of their conversation, unless you could somersault onto their bench like a certain smooth mechanic with a Southern accent and impress them enough to talk to you instead.

  
You glanced the cooler box. That thing is still full of drinks, floating on the water of melted ice blocks, and your reflection stared back. Sitting all alone on the picnic table—just like high school days.

  
“Eh? Oh, (Y/N)!”

  
Or maybe you wouldn’t be as sad today.

  
You turned around, and Smokescreen is slow-jogging to you with a big smile on his face, looking as fresh as you remembered. And he’s not alone—the old doctor with a slim, black suitcase on hand is trailing behind him, grumbling something about the weather and the uphill road, before it falters once his eyes landed on yours. You wave to him in an awkward motion, and while Smokescreen waves his hand back in great enthusiasm—waving so hard you’d think he’s trying to sway an angry African Killer Bee—Ratchet’s blush is more visible than his hand’s waving motion.

  
_Could be from the heat, but it’s not that hot anymore. Is he still thinking about that hug?_

  
“Hey!” Smokescreen called again once he’s closer, and Ratchet coughed a polite ‘hello’ you’d miss if you didn’t happen to catch his mouth moving in coincidence. “I haven’t seen you since, like, forever! What’re you doing all alone here? Where’re your group mates?”

  
“We met two days ago, Smokescreen,” you passed him a mini-sized bottled Sprite from the cooler box, and he wastes no time to bottoms up the soda, taking a seat not far from you, but not exactly the same spot Wheeljack took, “And they’re over there. They prefer to sit over there, and I’ve been sitting here for a while now—too comfy to move,” you lied, because ‘I’m not that great in social skill and I don’t want to make things awkward’ reply would sound too sad.

  
“Then you might want to fix your sitting position,” Ratchet added with a pink tint on each of his cheeks, clearing his throat before he took his own seat, one that much closer to you than Smokescreen did, “You’d bent something in your hips if you keep sitting like that.”

  
“Sir yes sir,” you mock-salute him, but did as he says anyway. “And how’re your patients, Doc? 58 in a day, huh?”

  
Ratchet’s greying eyebrows lifted as he wrinkles his forehead, “58? What’re you talking about?”

  
This time you turn yourself around completely, and you see his confusion is genuine. _Fuck, did Cindy got the wrong info?_ “Um, the kayaking accident?” you nervously offered, because you don’t really want to embarrass yourself after that personal-space-crossing hug, “Someone pushed other guests and they, uh, collapsed like a human dominos?”

  
Ratchet stares blinks thrice before your sentence clicks in his head, “Oh, that. No, they’re only, uh,” Ratchet squints his eyes as he looks at something in the distance, fingers counting something you couldn’t see, “31-32, if I’m not mistaken. The rest are fine—they’re just don’t want to explain they’re too scared for this schedule,” then he tilts his head a little, and gave you the same look he gave you the first time you met, “How did you know that? Did Knock Out tell you?”

  
_They’re just don’t want to explain they’re too scared for this schedule._

It supposed to be enough for a reason, since being scared of height is a common thing. It's not supposed to tugs something in your heart, causing you to doubt things even further. Something else happened to those guests, and Ratchet is not going to tell you no matter how tight you'd hug him.

It feels like Ratchet is lying. But for not for your sake; he's trying to hide something awful.

But this is not the time to voice up your thoughts. “Uh, well, you see, before you’re here, my friend Cindy told me about the kayaking accident yesterday. She claimed Robert told her about the numbers,” you bite your inner lips when you see Ratchet is still staring, “Sorry—is this supposed to be like, company’s secret?”

  
“Nah, it's not that—Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Smokescreen finally chimed in, wiping the soda bubbles from his upper lips, “Which Robert are we talking about now? Is he a guest? If he’s a guest, where did he knew about the number?”

  
“He’s a waiter, Smokescreen, relax. He’s the one that, uh,” you rolls your eyes to the left, trying to find another description aside from ‘the buff version of Steve the Waiter’, “tall, beefy? The Head of Waiters and Waitress?”

  
Then Smokescreen snaps his head dramatically to Ratchet, and Ratchet lifts his eyebrows in an unamused manner. Then, with the same abnormal speed, Smoekscreen turned back to you, “THAT Robert?! He’s the one who told you about it??”

  
“Robert told their friend, Smokescreen,” Ratchet said as he massages his temples, “No need to be so loud. He’s probably in the wooing phase with their friend.”

  
“But it’s unacceptable!” Smokescreen shrieks, pumping his fist childishly. You are seriously intrigued by Smokescreen sudden tantrum right now, “Why so? Are you jealous about Robert getting a girlfriend?”

  
The driver looks at you like you were baking someone’s puppy in an oven. “Duh! That guy is practically an Ultra Magnus wanna-be, and stricter than a dry stick, and-and probably wore crocs when not on duty! Look at me, (Y/N)! Look at me!” he suddenly lunged himself closer to you, close enough for you to see the tiny drops of Sprite on his light facial hair under his nose, “Look at me and tell me I don’t deserve to get any bride this week!”

  
You put your hand on his face and push him away with a laugh, “Whoa, there, slow down. A bride might a too big step for a week—it’s not like Robert would put on any groom suit anytime soon this week right?”

  
You said it as a joke, but just like how Steve’s behavior changed this morning, you managed to catch Smokescreen glancing nervously at someone behind you, most likely to be Ratchet, as his Adam’s Apple moves and he’s suddenly gone quiet.

  
“Yeah, not like he would,” Smokescreen replies with an awkward smile, turning away to take another gulp from his can. You turned to Ratchet, and either he’s just as confused as you, or he’s just experienced enough in maintaining facial experience to pull such a look.

“…Right,” you nodded along, taking another sip of your Coke too. “So, Ratchet!” you turned to the startled Doctor, clasping your hands in fake enthusiasm, “how are the patients? I mean, 32 in an accident—are they in fatal condition or…?”

  
You didn’t miss the relieved breath from Ratchet’s body motion, but said nothing about it as the doctor replies, “No deathly injuries, fortunately, but two patient lost their consciousness until two hours ago, six girls have scars on their head, one broke her neck, three men cracked their ribs, fourteen guests have water in their lungs, and the rest are either suffering from broken bones or twisted their moving limbs.”

“Ouch,” your left eye twitched upon the mental image, the chaos, and the noises, “What exactly happened anyway? You make it sounds like an NCIS episode’s case.”

“Indiscipline behavior of two male guests that led to an accident, which involved most of the guests to be injured.”

You saw his shadow before his person, and the shade covers you like an intangible blanket from the sky, bigger than the shade of your table’s umbrella provides for you. Ultra Magnus stood there, with hands behind him, cold as the first time you saw him. He looks at you for a second, then he averts his eyes to Ratchet, “Doctor, your presence is required. One guest sprained her ankle, and another still hasn’t regained his consciousness. Doctor Knock Out,” he shifted his body a little, to show Ratchet his junior waving his hands from ten feet away, looking like a hyperactive red dot from this distance, “will show you the way.”

Ratchet flashed you a stare you couldn’t comprehend—like a thousand-yard stare, but warmer and lighter—before he nods to Ultra Magnus and takes his leave. The Head Guard then turns to the young driver, and Smokescreen searches for comfort to his Sprite as he cowers under the Head Guard’s dark blue eyes.

“You are supposed to assist Captain Hot Rod since thirty-six minutes ago.”

It wasn’t a question—it’s not even a statement. It’s a direct order from a commander to someone waaaayyy below his rank, and that someone was ‘this’ close to cross a certain line. Smokescreen made a noise that sounds similar to ‘siryessir!’ in an awful pronunciation as he dashes for his life, leaving the half-finished can behind.

“(Y/N) (M/N) (L/N), I assume?”

There’s something about his tone that urges you to stand up and salute him with actual respect, despite the lack of any military badge or any direct demand from him. You gulp down that urge and offered your best sincere smile, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Ultra Magnus’ Ultra EyebrowsTM twitched. He’s not angry, you can see, just a little-offended someone as tiny as you (at least, from his perspective) dared to play hero in his (or his crew) position. If an angry Wheeljack would be scary, an angry Ultra Magnus would be intimidating because he could easily grip your ankle and swings you like a human blunt melee weapon.

“I have heard about the ship accident, and I’m grateful for your assistant,” he states and stares, as if he’s about to judge your entire being by your reaction alone. His stare is strong and bold—it made you feel small just to look directly at the pupils, so you focused on his eyebrows instead. After you gained enough courage, you nod to him, and Ultra Magnus continues, “I admit it was also my fault for not sending enough Guard Crew for the ship, since I assume they would not be necessary for one-day sail, but I would have to advise you to stay away from future accidents and the like. It is the Guard Crew’s responsibility, and it will be a greater assistance if you inform any of us about any accident or incident nearby rather than confront it by yourself.”

You’re in awe for a second, until your brain translated the words after ‘and it will be’ part as ‘you’ll be a better help if you didn’t do anything instead’.

And once again, your tongue is faster than your brain. “Yeah, well, uh, with all due respect, sir,” you clicked your tongue in response, getting out from your seat and facing him from the safe distance, “there was a big chance Starscream would be, uh,” what’s that synonym for raped? “V-Violated, long before I could get any of the staff or security or safety crew or whatever elite team you put in that ship, because when the, uh, accident almost happened, they’re all too b-busy to secure the other performers and other guests, and I was the closest and might be the only one to notice Starscream was cornered by 5 guests at the time—“

You look up into his eyes, into the dark blue rings, and you knew he’s now waist-deep in offence because of you—actually his face is just as flat as before, but you can feel his radiating anger just before your face—for talking back to him, _but fuck it,_ “so I did what necessary, and I did not, am not, will not regret it.”

If this was a movie, Optimus and Megatron would emerge from the shadows and slow-clapping you, Hot Rod would come out from the bushes with a camera on hand and the waiters would be throwing confetti at you. Unfortunately, it’s not, and the only thing you get is an even sharper glare from Ultra Magnus.

Ultra Magnus’ arms moved, and before you could scream for help, his bulging arms are now crossed in front of his chest. The Head Guard took a deep breath, and he says, “The kayaking yesterday was caused by two male guests, who were seen to be playfully pushing each other. The second guest moved too far from the first one’s reach, so the first one pushed him harder than intended, causing their group to fell on each other. Combined with slippery ground and the strong stream of the river, the fallen guests grabbed other guests that who were close to them in panic for support, pulling more and more bodies to the water. The guests with the worst injuries are the ones that fell right before the passing kayaks, which later are dragged through the rocks beneath and were hit by the oars. Some kayaks are also managed to be turned upside down by the guests who were trying to pull them up to their kayak.”

The sentence stopped naturally, and Ultra Magnus is not even running out of his breath. _Well, with boobs that bigger than 2 coconuts he must have extra-large sized lungs too._

Ultra Magnus’ eyes are still on you too, never averting and perhaps never blinking. “In this situation,” he continues, crooking his neck a little to take a closer look to you, “your obvious choice is undeniably to look for the nearest safety crew and stay out of the danger.”

_You wanna play, huh? You play like this? Okay. Let’s play._

The wind blew as if on cue, and you move closer to Ultra Magnus with a steady step. The Head Guard watches you with an intensity of a bird of prey, one that couldn't wait to insert its claws into your meat and take you up to the sky, to its nest where it could tear your soft flesh apart and lick up your blood. He stares not with anger, you can see it, clear as the bright sky, but with hunger--he's more interested to see how you'd answer him this time.

“40.”

Ultra Magnus was visibly taken aback by that, “Pardon?”

With straightened back, you took a deep breath and brace yourself for the worst. “According to Doctor Ratchet, there are 30 or so injured guests. That’s leaving about more than 60 guests available. Let’s assume 20 of them are in the kayaks, untouched and save from the chaos, so we have about 40 guests on dry land.

“That makes them, uh,” _what was your Sociology teacher calls them again?_ “a crowd. We are witnessing the guests here, a crowd—a large number of, uh, people in close proximity to each other. The crowd reacts at once to, uh, a common focus or concern. They’re, like, have no idea what to do or what to expect in that kind of situation, but they know something must be done right away to address the same concern they shared at the moment. They also would do and say things that they would normally not do, and they’d go along with the actions of others in the crowd— _waitlemmecatchabreathfirst_ —and, uh, any attitudes and ideas intended for that common concern would spread very quickly among crowd members.”

You held a finger out for him, a gesture of ‘hold on’ to Ultra Magnus as you grab your Coke real quick and refresh your throat. How does he manage to speak like this all the time, you’d never understand. “It’d be very easy to make them help each other and form a human chain to help the drifted guests instead of being herded away from the scene. They could also work together with the available waiters and crew and staff to prevent the guests on the kayaks from crashing to each other or turning upside down by chasing and getting the fallen guests up to the dry land, and one or two of the available guests could run off to look for further help.

“And again, _with all due respect sir,_ I know you have a job and you probably excel it with great professionalism, but trust me, not every civilian is useless enough to stay away as a bystander when something could definitely be done.”

The lungs in your ribs sang their gratefulness when you finally stopped talking. Your chests move heavily as your nose try to suck the oxygen as much as it allowed to, and you held your arms back to not to lean to anything to maintain your straight posture and eye contact while Ultra Magnus is still half meter away from you.

His watchful eyes are still on you, but they’re not radiating that angry nor the hungry feeling anymore. In fact, his eyes are now hooded and soft, and it might be the sun, but you think you see the edge of his mouth curved upwards about 3 mm away from their previous position. Then, Ultra Magnus releases a breath that probably his equivalent of amused snort as he uncrossing his arms. “You have a fair point,” he genuinely admits, his mouth remains in its neutral position, “but as the Head Guard, I still suggest you report any future accident to either the waiters or the safety crew instead of taking the matters into your own hands that definitely would lead you to get another injury in the future, just to be safe.”

Your argument is still strong in your mind, but your lungs are not, so you nod politely and bit your inner lips to prevent them spilling another unfiltered word.

Ultra Magnus then copied your nod, and smiles the most charming smile you’ve ever seen, “Well, then (Sir/Ma'am)," he salutes you out of blue, tone now is playful and light, "have a good day, and enjoy your activity.”

 

 

 

_Why assholes are hot?!_

 

 

 


	17. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy every one.... kinda late here, with the mid-term week coming up and the piling assignments. The good news is half of the assignment is done, so I can finally update this.  
> The bad news is I probably going to delay the next chap for a little longer since, well, exam.  
> Hope you all enjoy the new chap, by the way :)

You thought you finally have found the healthiest, most comfortable sitting position on this wooden bench after minutes denying that Ultra Magnus’ smile isn’t that great at all, one of your groupmate you recognized as Will, an African-American guy with dreadlocks and teeth that shine brighter than your balding teacher’s forehead, calls you from the other table while waving his long arms to catch your attention. “Hey, (Y/N)!” he shouts like a kid calling his buddy for the tag game, “We’re ‘bout to get wrecked bi—”

As you catch up with the rest of the group, you saw a Spaniard smacked the back of Will’s head in a manner of a mother scolding his naughty son. “We’re about to be thrown from a cliff with an elastic rope around our waist. Don’t say such a bad omen,” the middle-aged woman said, crossing her arms under her massive racks, greying hair tight in a tidy bun. When she saw you closing in, her manner changes. “Oh, hello, dear,” she says, holding out a hand, “(Y/N), I believe? We haven’t met before because I was in the toilet when they were giving out those numbered paper,” she laughed . Maria Hernández, nice to meet you.”

You accept her hand with doubled politeness because you knew she’s the type that’ll beat people like Vern to death with one slipper only. Not like you’re similar to Vern, God forbids that, but it’s best to play safe, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

The rest of the conversation is just a bunch of randomly generated topic between you and your groupmates that lasts until you something like a blur of red from the corner of your eyes. When you turned away to see what was is, the face of a handsome, young doctor with narcissistic tendency filled your vision.

“And the last but not the least!” KnockOut elegantly gestures your group, approaching like a diva he is. He made a dive to take your hand and kisses the surface, so graceful and quick, like a koi fish splitting the surface of a lily pond. You caught the naughty smile he flashes but your brain didn’t—you didn’t even have the time to have another panic attack like when Wheeljack grabs your hand. In the matter of fact, your brain probably saw the whole show as no more than an accidental brush to your hand in the middle of a crowded street.

KnockOut then proceeds to flirts with the rest of your groupmates as he also giving a brief explanation of what is going to happen. He’s giving away papers of consent, statements that mean you are in a perfect condition to do such an activity, have no history of heart attack, not having a pregnancy at the moment, etc; formal stuff you need to sign to prevent future accidents and the like. However, as your groupmates are carefully ready and trying to understand the rules and regulation, KnockOut suddenly gives you a light tap on your shoulder.

The MC twitches his head in a ‘come here for a sec’ gesture, backing few feet away from your group. Without thinking twice, you followed him.

“I have…” he begins in a whisper as you get closer to him, crouching his back a little as if he’s trying to reduce his presence physically, “I have heard what happened yesterday, about your encounter with certain… guest.”

He pauses to examine your reaction.  You nod, face all neutral. KnockOut continues, “Are you okay? This jump will definitely give you the similar sensation of a panic attack, and I just want to make sure you’ll be fine with it.”

So many internal, unseen things happened at once in you as KnockOut voices his concern, from rushing blood, that cold stone in your stomach, pumping heart, to your hitched breath, but they’re ended as a long, relieved breath. “Well, yea,” you swallowed a lump of saliva, rubbing the upper part of your left arm to relief the standing hairs, “that sucks, but Starscream pretty much beat the shit out of him and the only thing I suffered was a one-hour headache from last night—so yeah, I-I’m good. Thanks for asking.”

KnockOut squints, no doubt is about to question your decision, but then something cold and blunt stabs your heart from behind.

A sudden suck of breath and your brain confirmed there’s no physical harm has done upon you. It wasn’t a solid object—it was rather like someone took fear in a literal way and sharpened it before they strike it to you.

“The gears and tools are ready. I assume this group is the last one?”

You turned around, half expecting a being that shares the similar outer form to a SCP residents or something worse looks back to you, only to look into a pair of boob that just as big as Ultra Magnus’, but is covered in a rich purple jacket and white shirt instead.

The man behind the garment is another 7 ft. tall ethnically ambiguous guy with darker skin, military haircut. His left eye is covered with an eyepatch. Upon noticing your stares, he backed up a little and bows like a gentleman you’d never think he is, “Shockwave, at your service.”

Then the cold feelings went away, jerked violently from your brain like a reverse migraine. It hurts.

“Oh, um, I’m (Y/N). N-nice to meet you, I guess,” you nonchalantly replied, offering a hand while high on the light-headed sensation you’re having right now. Shockwave accepts your hand and shook it with a palm that, surprisingly, warm and soft.

You think Shockwave stayed a little longer after that, staring you with his only eye, but you could be wrong—with a head that weights like a sack of dry cotton, you could be wrong with anything.

Shockwave went to your groupmates and greets them one by one, checking their names from the clipping board he produced from the purple jacket. You see no one froze as you did upon his presence, but again, you couldn’t even feel the ground beneath you right now as KnockOut gently leads you to your group, talking about some nonsense you couldn’t make out.

Probably just your feeling. Yeah. The heat is making its way into your head.

The next thing you know, Yao Lie, another groupmate you barely greeted before, went first. Will and the others are cheering him names and pretend to shove him before the crew (as Yao Lie throws them double middle fingers) secured him somewhere else.

Shockwave shares the same elegance as KnockOut as he adjusts the gears and rope-y stuff all around Yao Lie’s body, finishing everything in seconds right before he pushed Yao Lie off the platform while he was playfully bantering with Sonya.

The terrified screams he erupted at first changes into hysterical laughter for a minute, then died down as he’s getting further away from everyone’s earshot. Some of your groupmates tried to see his fall, but the crew holds them back.

A minute later, with screams announcing his incoming, Yao Lie launched upwards, back to the deck he was thrown from.

Shockwave and his crew immediately went over to remove all the gears from him while Yao Lie himself looked like he just saw the inside of Hell itself—all pale with grey lips, standing hair and gaping mouth. Sonya, or something with ‘S’—you forgot, her name was too long and that ‘S’ part was the only part you remembered— gets closer to check if he’s still alive or did the other crew sent back his corpse instead.

“Yao Lie? You OK?”

KnockOut’s smile faltered as he observes too, glinting, charming eyes now are rolling side to side in his eye sockets as he too waits for the Singaporean to respond whilst Shockwave couldn’t look he cared less as he and his crew are checking the straps and plates of the jumping devices.

And then,

“WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOOOOOO!!!” he screams again, shocking Sonya and everybody else out of their skin. The woman slapped his arm and Yao Lie only laughs harder, followed by the rest of your groupmates as you welcomed him, clapping and asking what does it feel like down there. You clapped along, but you couldn’t find the energy to go ever there and ask how was it feels to be pushed off the cliff and bounced back upwards in one piece after.

KnockOut is now too busy entertaining other guests to baby you, the other crew to are pacing back and forth to check the ropes, the metal plates, and the platform and all, and you’re not going to ask any of your groupmate to miss their turn just so you could have someone to baby you at the moment, so you chose to go over the water dispenser instead and get yourself a cup of refreshing water… and maybe just sit around until whatever is in your head now go away. Yeah. That sounds like a pla

“(Y/N) MOV—“

Too late—the hook reached you faster than Will’s voice could, and the cup full of water that was halfway to your lips is now splashing water to your face and nose, freezing every single facial feature you have despite the outdoor heat.

You heard someone yelp as you choked from the water that gets into your nostril, rising the annoying burning feeling in your throat and the back of your nose. You choke on the water, shutting your eyes in automatic response. But before you can open them again, someone is gently dabbing your face with dry clothes that don't feel quite like a towel material to you.

"Ohmyfuckinggod, I'm so so so sorry (Y/N)," you heard Sonya talking in the background as the clothe still blocking your view, drying away all the cold droplets off your skin with soft dabs and fast glides, "That was for Yao Lie, but the brat ducked and-and, oh, (Y/N), Mr Shockwave, I'm so so so sorry!"

"Nah-mmph, I'mmm mhine," you replied, that clothe muffling every word you spoke as it soaks the droplets on the corner of your mouth and cheeks. "It's mmnoth like hamph--KnockOut, that's enough!”

Then the clothing got off your face, and the face you looking for wasn’t there. It was Shockwave’s.

You gaped as your brain labeled the face you saw as its owner, and things just escalated down from there. “O-oh, Shockwave,” you gulped down a ball of saliva—cold saliva, “I-uh, th—“

“Hold still,” the one-eyed staff instructed, locking gaze with you all along, “I need to reach this part.

His palm—bigger than your face—grips your chin with the strength one would use when they’re holding a newborn baby bird as he holds you still. Then you feel it; something sharp pricking the surface of your mind, like a syringe needle penetrating your skin.

Open up. It will not be as hurt as before.

But this time, your brain refuses to let it makes itself home in your mind.

“No!” you jerked back with all your willpower from his fingers, spitting out the words as if they’re burning coals from your mouth. The exclaim, of course, attracts several heads to turn into your direction. Shockwave’s face barely changes upon your reaction, but you didn’t miss that glint that just crossed over his single eye, and you know for sure you don’t like whatever it means.

And you also know you need to go away, for now, far to somewhere else quiet, because that little voice in your head came back and it’s screaming.

“(Y/N)?” came KnockOut’s gentle voice, “are you okay? Do you ne—“

“No-I mean, yes! I’m fine,” you turn to KnockOut and offers him a smile, all while still glancing Shockwave warily, “I-it’s just, uh, mm, I’m-I’m kinda dizzy at the moment. My head hurts, spinning—something like that. Yeah. I think I’ll skip this today,” you glanced at your group, waving them an apologetic wave, “sorry everyone.”

The MC lets out a deep sigh, “Figures,” he combs his hair back, murmuring to himself in a language you’re not familiar with. “I would have to ask you to lie down—You, uh, Ivan! Get my Gucci ba—“

“No, actually, don’t mind me,” you refused him quickly, still straining your eyes on Shockwave, “I-I just need some fresh air. You all go ahead and have fun, ok? I-uh-I’m just gonna go for a walk and maybe some fresh air. I’ll see you later!”

You didn’t let them reply—you’re too busy running away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You scared them.”

“It was a test, Doctor.”

“A test for what? Your capability to stay single?”

The single eye _almost_ looks offended, "For the mental strength of the guest."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	18. Local Gorilla Man Saves Screaming Tourist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *raise from the dead* MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAY YOU SWEETS, BETCHA'LL THINKS I'M DED! Well apparently not since I've survived the exam week and still managed to finish this on Christmas!  
> Well, also sorry for skipping my monthly-update ritual. It's because my lecturers collectively dump tons of researching assignments that required polling and weekly presentation, along with my preparation for the Final Exam Week and my partime jobs, so yeah. Gotta skip the whole three months for the sake of my grades.  
> But here I am! Merry Christmas and Happy Holiday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, almost forgot!  
> https://ko-fi.com/B0B2LNUE  
> I made a ko-fi page! If you guys interested to buy me some digital coffee, here's a way to do it! Thanks for reading my stories!

The sun is not as friendly as you remember, and the fauna-less environment becomes as creepy as the first time you realize it. There’s a distant voice calling you, faintly sounds like KnockOut’s, but the call pumps up your need to get away rather than luring you in like he usually does, and that’s what you do.

  
Adrenaline helps by blinding blocking the distress signal your sore legs and stressed lungs sent, focusing the oxygen delivery to your tendon muscle and run as if your heart would stop beating if you don’t.

  
There’s another faint voice again; from inside, this time. It’s your logic, you realize with a drop of sweat between your brows, and it says you should’ve stayed on the paved dirt road.

  
However, the deeper, louder part of your brain told you to run into the woods once you’re out the bungee jumping area, hide between the leaves and bushes and trees, away from the lights where you could’ve been easily spotted by anyone, and you do.

  
_Why am I running?_ you asked in a moment of logical thinking, dodging trees and vines at your highest speed like a damn American Ninja Warrior champion, _Why am I running? Is it because of some guy has one eye instead of two? Am I creeped out because of him? Is this ableism?_

  
But the forest stays quiet, so there goes your unanswered question.

  
The further you went, the colder it gets. Gone the dry wind and its bright light you have known for the past hours, replaced by the smooth, fresh breath of forest’s wind, into the shady parts you’d find scary if not for the current circumstances.

  
You could care less for the childish fear as your primitive fear whips you to run deeper into the trees and their shades, where the sunrays barely reach the ground with thick leaves and long branches blocking them. The ground is getting damper the further you went, and the cold is getting stabby; yet you cared for neither.

  
And, if you have been more observant, you’d notice it’s getting steeper too.

  
(But again, if you have, you’d never be in this itinerary at the first place)

  
The rest of your instinct-driven mind was interrupted by your own surprised scream when you step on what you thought was a rock, only to be turned out as a lump of caked mud, sending you straight to a slippery steep cliff and here you are, screaming like one of Hannibal’s soon-to-be dinner while dirt-sliding down by butt to God-knows-where.

  
Your main focus stream is scrambled into a bush of nonsense as your receptors overloaded by all the information you gained at once. The cold, slippery earth beneath you, the flashing, shining sun, branches, leaves, rocks, and dead plants hitting your body and face and ass as you slide through them, clawing at everything in your reach.

  
But so far those everything failed you, and you’re still sliding, sliding down the earth, under the cheery blue sky and among the yucky dead plants, couldn’t focus long enough even to scream a little, couldn’t e _v en focus to think, it’s too much, too cold, too abstract, stopstopspleaseIcan’tbreathnoNOnONONOn—_

  
A claw sliced your skin, grabbed your collar—

  
And it yanks you to stop dead in the middle of your mud sliding.

  
Your breath knocked out of your lung, there are leaves and grass in your shirt and pants, legs and hands are kicking and scrambling to push you up to whatever is holding you up right now.

  
Your hand found what feels like a very thick, hairy branch, that turned out to be a very muscular hairy hand, and the claw earlier was a hand with fingers that as sharp as daggers.

  
A grunt caught your attention and above you, a little to the left, Wheeljack is holding you up.

  
Then his dark eyes with dark circles blinked, and you realized Wheeljack’s face wasn’t that tanned, nor his sideburns were that black—Wheeljack has scars, but the man here has scars sprinkled on his face. And despite your half-high-on-panic brain state, you can see this man has less board shoulder than that mechanic.

“You ‘kay there?” he grunts, other hand holding onto a thick tree with tight-death grip like a sentient gorilla. You nod, not trusting your voice, and Gorilla Man told you to hold tight onto his arms before swing you up, clearly trying to yank you out of this nature slide, but your body still too shocked to cooperate and with a slip, you missed the spot he meant for you, and he lands you on his own body instead.

The lack of heat in his body surprised you more than how are you practically straddling him, the red shades he tucks on his shirt digs into your chest, and you missed the breath he hitched along your realization.

You did not, however, miss how his grip tightens on the bark he’s holding on, and with surprised gasp you tried to find your own gripping spot before your slow-poke reflex drags both of you all the way down, “Sorry, so sorry—I’ll get you off now-get off you, I mean!” your knee digs into his abdomen, and you heard him grunts again, “Sorry! Oh my god, I’ll get going now—ugh, please bear with me a little longer, I just need to—"

“Stop! Stop, stop… just—stop,” Gorilla Man says, more in exasperated tone than angry at your failed attempt to crawl away, “Hold my shoulders; I’ll get us up.”

You slide down to his body again, circling your arms around his neck like a baby gorilla to it’s Papa Gorilla, his red shades is cool against your cheeks. When he tells you to hook your legs around his waist—to secure your position also keeps his abdomen from being crushed by your knees—you obeyed with a red face and fuming cheeks.

You felt his legs move to find a good spot for footing, upper body moves along to push you up. With a growl, he jerks his body upwards—and slipped down to the descending mud path.

Your heart lost a beat, maybe two, but how many was that, it was slower than how fast Gorilla Man manhandled your previous position into a cradling one—he puts your head into the crook of his neck and unhooks your legs in one movement, pulling both of your walking limbs close to your chest like a freaking bridal style—all less than 5 seconds, while sliding down at the speed of whatthefuckisthis-meter/fuckthisisland-second.

“Keep your arms in!” he barks into your ears, wide palms folded your body as tiny as you could endure and secures your like a baby in his arms.

You can feel his shades cracks under your own chest. Pretty sure he felt that too, but he keeps the pressure as strong as the first time to make sure you’re tucked in his embrace.

Through his body, you can feel every bumping rocks, every tripping roots, and slices of other sharp stuff that spiking up from the muddy earth, but none of them touched you because Gorilla Man’s here volunteered to be your human shield, protecting you with his own body.

This hill can’t be that high, and surely this sliding session would end soon, you thought as you listen to the on the loud beating heart inside of Gorilla Man’s chest—so you won’t have to listen to how his clothing ripped by the jagged rocks and spiky roots instead—still, you can’t help but think that with the right camera angle and smooth CGI effects, it’d be romantic.

  
Then the sliding motion becomes slow, slower, and slower until you hear a loud ‘ _Burhg_!’ and your whole world literally shook.

Actually, it’s not the world. It’s just your world, that currently consists of Gorilla Man’s whole body and arms.

“Well,” Gorilla Man gasped out, clearly almost out of breath from all of that sliding. He looks down to his cradle, and suddenly you felt tinier than you actually are. “Here’s our stop. Y’kay there?”

Despite the dizzy sensation, a spinning head, and weak limbs, you managed a nod and that’s all he needs.

He peels you off himself, with the circle of his shades imprinted onto your cheek, lifts you by the armpits and held you up until he’s sure you’re steady enough to stand by yourself.

You check your surroundings while Gorilla Man does his best to dust himself off from the, uh, decoration from Mother Nature, with all that dead leaves, grass, and browns that probably would never fade from his dark blue uni—

“Hey,” you gulped, recalling the uniform the safety squad wore, except Gorilla Man here lacks the helmet and the nametag, “I-isn’t that… Ultra Magnus’ team’s uniform?”

The cracked shades on his shirt sways when Gorilla Man looks up from picking leaves from his pants, and he chuckles with a deeper timbre than KnockOut’s laugh, “You caught me. I faked a sick day to have a smoke in the woods when I heard a lost tourist screaming all the way down here.”

You blush again, stammering as you clean your own clothes, “It’s not like I meant to do that! I was just too busy running and—”  
And then you stopped yourself short before you spilled too much.

You can feel the weight of Gorilla Man’s stare on your shoulders, and your current brilliant solution is to pretend you’re too busy examining the mud spot on the stomach part of your shirt.

Gorilla Man twitches, you see from the corner of your eyes, but you don’t see any movement that’d look like Wheeljack’s when he cornered you beside the bus. He’s not going to ask you further, much to your relief, but the silence is so heavy Ratchet and KnockOut can perform a surgery on it.

“A-anyway,” you faked a cough, gulped and continue, “Thanks for saving me back then. It was re-really reckless of me.”

He waves his massive hand, and you noticed his height made up for the lack of his thickness.

“Nah, thank Ultra Asshole. If I hadn’t enough of his speeches, I’d be with the boring squad of his than be here to catch you.”

Your laugh brings a light smile to his scared face, and he’s truly the most handsome gorilla you’d ever met. “I-I’ve never caught your name—I’m (Y/N). (Y/N) (L/N). Nice to meet you, Mr. ….?”

  
There was a pause on his vibe, like he just manages to click something in his head and the realization came like a security breach to him, but he has it under control as fast as he manhandles you, and smiled a little wider to show you all the white teeth he has, “Barricade, at your service.”

 

 

 


	19. Romantically Ominous Long Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember, the skin always look nicer than the flesh! :)

The spot you both fell on turned out to be the starting point of a shortcut path to the hotel—a wild, unknown, unmapped path to the hotel, but faster than any vehicle currently available in the island.

 

“If you ask me,” Barricade shouted from the top of the tree he’s on, hand above his eye as he scans your environment in Tarzan’s Style, “it’ll be a half hour walk if we keep walking down from here, plus 40 minutes to follow the river to the east.” Because climbing back up would be an outdoor equivalent of climbing up a descending escalator.

 

“And the river would lead us to…?”

 

“The island’s Plant House,” Barricade grunted as he dives and rolled onto the ground. You’re a little disappointed he didn’t try to strike a hero-landing pose, “And it’ll be 5-minute walks from there to Hotel.”

 

You gaze at the greens and browns spread out in front of you, mucky and quiet, humid with the heat of the blazing sun. You took a deep breath, but no familiar refreshing scent to greet your nose.

 

“You guys don’t have any chopper?” you asked, “I haven’t seen any, but surely y’all have a chopper or something like that for emergency or rescue case, right?”

 

“No,” Barricade replied after a moment, “This island’s only big enough for one hotel, and to have a heli means to have the landing spots. Neither Optimus or Megatron agreed to chop down the trees or pave down some new path more than what necessary for tourism for —so as you can see,” he waved to the trees around you, “no landing spots, no heli.”

 

‘ _Also I don’t want to explain why I’m lazing around in the woods when I’m supposed to be with Ultra Magnus’ squad_ ’ went unsaid, but you understand that feeling—sometimes, you really gotta take a day off for your own sanity, and with how strict Ultra Magnus to guests, you can only imagine how far he’d go with his own team.

 

You sighed, loud enough for the undisciplined officer to pulls his face and crossed his arms. You eyed Barricade’s communication device on his hip, wondering how did it survive the whole thing, “Fine. I guess. Walking by foot it i—”

 

Dread filled you faster than you can blink. With quick breath and cold stomach, you inspect your pockets and pants, to find your dead cellphone, but no brick-phone nor the holster around your thighs.

 

_Fuck_

 

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—_

 

“(Y/N)? You okay?”

 

“Uh, I, ah,” your tongue tripped on itself, you can feel your palms getting wetter with sweats because you lost your friends’ satellite phone in the middle of Muddy Slide, in an unmapped area, in an un-W _ikipedia-ed island, with unfamiliar faces, and now if things went to shit you can’t call for help, and even if things don’t go to shit you still have to_ _pay for a phone that probably as pricey as your college loa_ —

 

“It’s fine!” you waved your hand with a weird smile, shaking your dead phone to Barricade. “It’s kinda hilarious, really—I was panicking for a second there because I thought I lost my phone when we were gorilla-style sliding down here, you see, but apparently things are fine and stuff!”

 

You grip you phone tighter to hide your shaky movement. Barricade tilted his head, like a seagull deciding if something worth to peck on or not, “You sure?”

 

“Yeah!” you croaked, cringefully.

 

Barricade’s eyes squinted and his mouth twitched. His jaw hardens for a moment, like he was physically stopping himself from saying something else. Like he knows you’re lying.

 

The wind blows and the trees make static noises as the leaves rubbing on each other, creating a small background noise for the stretched silence.

 

In the end, Barricade keeps everything to himself. He just nods and leads the way, carefully and diligently inspecting every step while watching yours at the same time. Step, check, step, and check.

 

This pattern went for a few minutes until you could walk by yourself confidently without Barricade jerking his head for every squeak you whimpered out because you thought you’re about to die for stepping on something.

 

However, the stretched silence stayed—usually, it’ll be comfortable, a quiet walk in the woods, lost in your own thoughts as you enjoy the soft breeze of the wilderness.

 

Alas, the wind here only brings more heat to the dampening humidity. The sunrays became increasingly annoying, and the silence isn’t as enjoyable as you remember. Your eyes struggle to blink away drops of sweat from your eyes, and the rustling noises of leaves only come once in a while, in small volume you’d only hear if you concentrate hard enough. The lack of bugs nor animal noises has become more awful than disturbing to you—you need to say something.

 

But by the look he has, Barricade isn’t about to prompt any noise aside from the wet steps his weight causes for the damp ground.

 

The sunrays were not enough to brighten everything, but it’s bright enough for you to realize Barricade’s tanned skin wasn’t tanned—it’s the actual color, and you’ve stared long enough at Barricade’s face to realize his face structure is closer to Native American than Caucasian.

 

The scars he has, unlike Wheeljack’s and Megatron's, are long and light, but deep enough to leave some mark whereas Wheelack’s are tiny but deep—proof from his own failed experiment and Megatron only has few, light scratches—ones like knuckle brass would leave on someone’s face, one across his nose bridge, and two short slice marks starting from his left jaw.

 

Barricade’s though, are closer to claw marks. Long and light, mainly on his left cheek and left jaw, riding up to his cheekbone, scratches on his temples. Whatever he was holding managed a short fight before Barricade put it down.

 

(Because there's no way human's nail can claw skin that deep, right?)

 

“Something on my face?”

 

“Huh?” you asked back, a little off guard with the sudden inquiry. There was a noise similar to muffled chuckle from him, but Barricade has his back facing you and he was sliding down a short flattened steep ground. Could be the leaves. “The last time Frenzy stared at me that long it because Rumble drew a dick on my cheek. What is it this time?”

 

“This island is empty.”

 

Barricade abruptly stops and you fell on your ass because your sudden halt caused you to slip again. However, it didn’t distract you from the microsecond of red flash in Barricade’s eyes.

 

It wasn’t the golden hue brown eyes turn into when light falls on them—it’s a flash of eeriness, one you only found in the eyes of feline animals when you flash them in darkness, or the kind of image you’d expect to find when you look down under your bed.

 

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Barricade said, and you forget what did you see, “we got about a hundred of other guests and even more of staffs. We are twice your number if you count the safety squad in.”

 

“No, not that,” you hissed as you get up, rubbing your sore butt, “I haven’t seen a single ant ever since I got here. Not even birds and birds are everywhere on earth.”

 

A skeptical eyebrow is raised, “Even in the sea?”

 

You shrugged, “Penguins.”

 

“They don’t live in the sea.”

 

“Wh—they literally sleep and hunt in it on daily basis.”

 

“That’s not living.”

 

“I never said anything about living in the sea! I simply said there are birds in—oh, you.”

 

You recalled Smokescreen once mentioned about how Barricade and Knockout often changing the topic—you just can’t believe how easy was it for him to distract you like that. And the asshole still has the audacity to look innocent. “Me what?”

 

Your eyes stare at him with the sternest pout you can muster at the moment. He was standing on few feet lower ground than yours—you are supposed to look taller, given the geography context, but Barricade is taller than Bee and the best you can get with your current height is being an eyebrow taller than him.

 

“This island is empty—no animals nor insects,” you repeated, walking in front of Barricade, “why?”

 

Barricade clicked his tongue, shoves his hands down into his pockets as he follows you, and sighs, “Been asking about the same thing too,” he says, keeping the slower pace to catch up with you, “And Megatron says ‘You got paid for keeping people safe, not for asking things’.”

 

That probably because Megatron doesn’t know either but too proud to admit it.

 

“Optimus?”

 

A shrug, “He doesn’t know jack about shit either.”

 

A croak of a grasshopper would be a fine finishing touch to the new veil of silence you’ve accidentally summoned. But that noise never came, so you ask again, “Ratchet? KnockOut? Wheeljack?” you turned to Barricade, walking backward, dangerously stepping down without looking, “Are you seriously only have those three in the brainy department?”

 

Officer Skip-A-Shift-To-Smoke chuckles at your choice of term. “Soundwave’s the hacker guy, while Shockwave there,” he nods to the platform direction, “are in charge of in equipment, gears, and basic medical attention for tourism necessity—”

 

You slipped, and Barricade caught your hand without a beat, like he has foreseen it, pulling you up until your chest almost touching. He leaned down until your noses only two inches apart, “—last time I hear, that’s it.”

 

You exhaled and the breath you released tickles Barricade’s thin mustache. Heartbeat goes wild, and you need to calm it down before asking, “Last time you hear it?”

 

“We were in the same camp, me and Shockwave, back in my military days,” he answered. You backed off and Barricade lets you be. “I don’t really know his rank or what’s he supposed to do; the Creepy Cyclops never talks or makes friends, but he makes good weapons and poison and meds and shit like that, so the Commander keeps him around.”

 

Again, lots of ex-military members. You’re 84% sure most of the staff are made up of them. “And you two went here after the military days ended?”

 

You’ve reached the flat ground by now, and the streaming body water is only ten steps away from you. Barricade walks in front of you, off-mindedly kicking the bright grey pebbles near him, but his slumped shoulders looked a little ashamed when you mentioned it.

 

“Well, he’s the reason I’m here—said the safety squad needs more men, and not many peeps want any scar-faced guy around, so…”

 

“Barri.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“It’s not gonna work twice.”

 

So does another innocent look he gave you for the second time. “I’m serious!” he shouted without heat; you can detect the laugh he hides in it, “It was rougher times until Chief Cyclops reached out to me. But I suppose this is much easier than being his test subject.”

 

Under the sun, far from the woods’ humidity and shades, the river is calm and clear, so clear you’d thought it’s dried if not for the occasional splash Barricade makes by kicking pebbles into it. You’d be busy looking for fish in it if you didn’t catch the last two words, “Test subject?”

 

“Psychology, biology, chemi, y’know, Frankenstein shit,” Barricade waves his hand dismissingly, other hand putting on the cracked shades. “He kinda really good at mixing biology stuff and making another biology stuff out of it, and I don’t have enough brain cells understand the math so I leave his business alone.

 

“But he’s really detailed and hardly missed any insignificant nor significant mistake—better than Ultra Magnus, even. If Ultra Magnus can spot your first button was sewed three millimeters lower than the others, Shockwave can tell how many times it was renewed by one glance. Pretty sure that’s why he’s in charge of gears and equipment preparations.”

 

“So he also in charge of environment inspections?” you prompted again and Barricade nods; no hesitations, no pauses.

 

A fresh wind blows, bringing you a colder breeze and it tousles Barricade’s hair, making him looked years younger than before.

 

That means the best answer for your curiosity would come from Shockwave—but do you really wanna know bad enough to repeat the thing that chased you away in the first place?

 

Shit, you almost forgot about that.

 

“Barri,” you called, and the officer misses the rock he meant kick. He stops and turned to you, shades reflecting lights, “Yeah?”

 

“You ever talk to Shockwave?” you began, kinda nervous with your own question, “As in, real talk. Like, long conversation that lasts longer than a minute.”

 

Because if he had lasted longer than you do, perhaps you’re just imagining the whole brain-prickling sensation. Perhaps it’s all just imagination—perhaps you’re just having subconscious homesick and your brain decided to play with you.

 

Barri smiles a crooked smile—he understands what you’re talking about. “He could be confessing as our personal local cryptid and no staff would be surprised, (Y/N). If you really wanna know about the fauna stuff there, I can ask Shockwave for you,” he offered, white teeth bright with the sun like a goddamn toothpaste commercial. “I have another shift tomorrow. You guys would be having an all-day beach party, and I’m signed with the watchers’ team.”

 

You agreed, and the walks continue with your hands occasionally bumped to each other, talking and laughing about every nonsense Barricade manages to slip into the conversation while the sun settles in the West.

 

 


	20. Camping Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!  
> I meant to post this on Valentine's Day, alas these three projects, depression moments, works, and finding out 60% people I know have been trash talking me for the last two years have been taking more of my attention than I would usually let on, but here I am!  
> Happy (belated) Valentine's Day everyone!

The Plant House is not a plant house—it’s a tunnel, just laying on top of the ground like a worm; bigger, darker, and longer than any greenhouse you have ever seen (not like you’ve seen that many actually). The sun has not completely settled down, but the raining clouds are closing in with threatening darkness, enough to make anyone who sees the ‘plant house’ would mistake it as an unmoving train from afar. The whole body of it is made out of a material that is see-through but not see-through enough; you can see some lights on from inside, but not the plants, besides the blurry green.

  
“Hoop house with mesh material,” Barricade explained, his shades are no longer on his face. “Optimus was against the glass one once he found out about global warming and would not let Megatron approves any Plant House design until the building team can find a friendlier material, so Shockwave and Wheeljack used this one instead.”

  
“Your managers sound like a married couple sometimes,” you joked and Barricade huffs, “I sure hope they’re—we’ve been betting for years whether they’re secretly together or at least fuck buddies, and my money is on the second.”

  
A booming crack of thunder cuts your laugh, and Barricade glares at the sky for ruining his joke.

  
You walk faster now, as the first drop of rain just fell on your eyelid. Upon a closer look, the lights from inside show the material wasn’t a see-through, but more like a barrier made of connected strands of fiber-like material; kind of similar to an insect net.

  
The wind blows, shaking the trees like they owe it money, colder now with night and storm approaching fast. Not that cold for you, but your hands instinctively reached for each other the second you feel the wind blows to your direction.

  
_Not that cold_ , you repeated to yourself when you found yourself relieved as the tiny square at the end of the hoop house slides open, revealing the brighter room inside, radiating warmth and dryness invitingly.

  
A silhouetted person came out of that light—a male, judging by the bulging shoulder muscle and short hair, wearing a gardening apron with a basket of something in his arms. “Look at that crazed chef,” Barricade scoffed, a little heat with amusement in his tone, “won’t use any other ingredients ‘cept for the ones he grows or catches hi—”

  
“Bee!” you shouted to catch his attention without thinking, finally giving in to acknowledge _yes, it’s fucking cold here_ , “Yo, Bee!”

  
The silhouette stops its movement and the head turned to look at you, other hand pulling out a big ass flashlight out of his gardening apron’s pouch to see you better, “What the—oh Primus!”

  
Bee drops the basket to run to you, flashlight flashing like crazy in his arms as he zooms to you. He closed the 20 meters distance within 3 seconds. “(Y/N), what the frag??! Do you have any idea the chaos you caused??”

  
_Huh?_

  
“Ultra Magnus’ party are all out and went all over the island the find you! Hell, Megatron and Optimus released the speed boat to sweep the ocean! Where did you disappear to?!”

  
“Uh,” you breathed, looking up to Barricade. Bee looks at him. Barricade stares back.

  
“’sup.”

  
“Your aft is gone, that what’s up!” Bee hollered, and you’d be laughing at how Bee, whose head only reaches Barricade’s neck, screams and rants how both of the Managers would have him fried like homemade potato chips for this if your brain didn’t remind you what happened the last time you’re gone. _Fuck, Ratchet and Knock Out would fry my ass too._

  
And then that thought leads you to another question— _Why Barricade didn’t tell anyone we’re gone for a walk? He’s a part of safety squad; surely, he knows the protocol of finding someone who departs from their group?_

  
“My walkie died, stuffed with mud when we fell down. Can’t even turn it back to live,” Barricade’s thumb jabs the direction which you came from, and before Bee could yell at him again, the guy in uniform he only half-deserve adds, “and the storm is coming. Are you really gonna make a guest freezes their ass off here so you can rant on me?”

  
Bee wants to argue more, but your body shivered heavily the moment he tried to get more profanity for Barricade and Bee notices. With an angry puff, his shoulders dropped, “Fine. Let’s just get inside.”

  
The inside of Plant House is much more complex than its exterior, filled with many kinds of fruit, veggies, flowers and other plants you couldn’t name nor familiar with. Green fills your eyes, divided into three paths, extending to the end of the Plant House tunnel. The whole space is bright with the water-proofed lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. There are some gardening tools here and there, displayed and scattered on the spaces between the plants and the potted plants—there’s garden scissors on a mango’s tree branch, a garden fork leaning on its tree.

  
What attracts you the most, however, is that this place actually smells like what a place filled with greens should smell like.

  
“A lil’ messy, I know. Organized chaos, heh,” Bee quips from the back, half closing the door after he lets you and Barricade in, “feel free to look around—and please, while I’m minding my Thailand Carrots, do not get lost in here. Not like it’s possible—that wasn’t a challenge, ‘Cade, wipe that grin off your face and go phone the peeps!” he points to the space between purple flowers and yellow fruits at the end of the tunnel. Barricade only hums.

  
“I’m serious,” Bee said, a little bit louder than necessary. “Everyone is so hectic; Doc-Bot went synth-en again and Knock Out took Arcee’s old bike to scout the forest. At this point, Megatron might start sending the waiters into the storm for (Y/N). Go phone them now.”

  
And with that, he’s out with his basket, leaving you and Barricade alone.

  
“That’s lotta stuff for a missing person,” you finally say after a while, turning to see Barricade plucking an apple of its tree, “He made it sounds like you guys have a jailbreaker than a lost tourist.”

  
“Happened once, kinda smudged their pride—the Managers,” Barricade said between the crunch of apple bits, “Want some? Korean Apples are the shit.”

  
You catch the bitten apple he threw with fumbling arms, rub it on your cloth before biting the clean part. The whole thing so messed up you don’t even realize you haven’t eaten anything since the soft drink (if you can count that as a meal). Besides, Barricade’s right—the apple is really good.

  
The said officer already ten steps ahead when you vocalized your amazement, heading to the direction Bee nodded to. The apple in your hand feels a little heavy, and you, afraid you’d go impulsive again and pluck all the apples without Barricade or Bee around to supervise you, followed him.

  
“So, what’s with that ‘happened once’?” you asked again as you match your steps with his, still munching the apple with the sweetness you never thought could be so perfect, “Did that guest went missing or what?”

  
“Worse,” Barricade replied with a grimaced face, as if he saw whatever happened to that guest by himself, “I wasn’t there, but Magnus was, and I suppose she’s the reason he’s uptight as fuck with his rules since then.”

  
You stopped munching, and Barricade plucked an orange that just within his reach. You waited for him to peel the fruit, slowly finishing your own, but the twitch on the edge of his lips says he has no intention to continues the story unless you prompted him to.

  
“Stop riddling with me—what happened?”

  
Barricade shrugs, ducking down from a bunch of overgrown vines, popped a piece of orange into his mouth. “I don’t really know the detail, but everyone says the lady went to have a midnight walk near the beach, only to be found dead in the morning.”

  
The leaves of that vines licked your face and you hope it wasn’t anything like poison ivy plants, “She drowned?”

  
“Slipped and hit her head—she was found near the big rocks with a cracked skull, so the closest possibility is that she was sitting on the top of it, but having trouble when she tried to get down.”

  
Barricade slows down as he reached the end of the Plant House—a room at the end of this tunnel, build on polished wooden floor and ceilings that extends long and wide enough to sustain a hammock, rows of tables and shelves of gardening tools, books, lights, water sink with mirror—and of course, a full corner for the kitchen and a fridge. 

  
You went to the sink immediately, washing your dirt caked face, arms, and hair, shivering under the cold bites of running water. “It like someone chopped a wooden cabin in half and shoved it here,” you murmured after you are sure there's no visible dirt stain on you as you inspect your reflection.  Barricade snorts as he made his way to a wireless phone near the fridge, orange skin and apple's core are dunked into a trash bin beneath the sink. “Smokescreen and Wheeljack helped Bee to build this, I heard, and that’s why those two always stacked with food almost all the time.”

  
Another loud thunder booms at the same second you saw the door opened, revealing Bee with a basket full of dark soil and face smeared with it. He carries the soil like a loving father would carry his newborn child, waddling his way to the first path of greens on the left side, to the bunch of oranges colored stuff on the dried light brown ground.

  
Barricade dialed the phone, leaning his weight on his right leg as he explains himself to Megatron’s voice, one hand holding the phone and the other hand scratching the back of his head as he fakes his innocent voice.

  
Not wanting to be part of his con, you walk away to Bee’s spot as he digs out the carrots with care you’d apply when taking care of a well build card house. He was taking out the last baby carrot when you finally reached him. Seriously, this place is great and all, but it’s kinda hard to roam around when you could barely reach the third of the total space in this Plant House without feeling like you’ve jogged around the entire football field.

  
“Thailand carrots, huh?” you asked, crouching few inches away from him, admiring the glowing color of the tiny veggies he lined on another basket beside the one with new soil.

“Yep. The island’s weather doesn’t really suit them, so I’ve got to change the soil every now and then,” Bee smiled fondly as he dumps the new soil, bare hands preparing the ground with care, “a bit like taking care of babies, really.”

  
_Babies you’d cook eventually,_ you thought, but Bee looks really happy when he plants the tiny carrots back, and thankfully your brain shushed your mouth first before the words slipped out. You watched him instead, sitting down on the semi-wet ground with your chin on your knees, observing how Bee elegantly replanting the carrots, one by one, each with the same amount of love and care.

  
And then your eyes moved up to his throat, where the scars lie. Unconsciously, you rub your own throat, as if you could feel the threads and scalpel they use to fix him up.

Suddenly, you wonder if Shockwave somehow participated in that operation too. Or he might just hover over sedated Bee, observing the doctors do their job.

  
Probably the second.

  
“I think you’d make a great father,” you croaked out loud to distract yourself from that creepy image, watching Bee planting the last five tiny carrots. It seems to be the right thing to say because Bee gleams like Christmas lights after you say that.

  
“I’m so glad you rea—“

  
_“BOOM!”_

  
_Aaaaanndd there goes the moment._ At least this time it wasn’t your fault.

  
The rain soon followed, and although it’s not as heavy as the outside, the water still gets in. Bee guides you back to the cabin part of the Plant House, taking out two more hammocks from behind one of the shelves. Those two are frequently used, you notice, because the dust on the hammocks are barely visible and Bee only needs ten minutes to clean them out.

  
“It’s military days all over again,” Barricade commented as he helps you hooking up the hammocks and the wooden poles across the kitchen, next to Bee's own hammock, while the chef himself moves to the other side of the cabin to turn on the heater. 

  
“Sleeping on a hammock, surrounded by greens?” you asked teasingly after the second hammock done, but Barricade’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, “There was no green. Only rocks, stars above our heads, sleeping bags and silent snores.”

 

 

 

> “ _And blood scent in the air_.”

  
You think the last part wasn’t mean to be heard, so you say nothing to the fake smile he flashed you so charmingly. Bee hands you a comfy looking blanket that reeks of citrus and fresh soil, and you waste no time to climb onto your own hammock (there's an oil stain at one corner), wrapping yourself into a cocoon of blankets and flattened pillow of the hammock. Bee asks are you actually going to sleep so early, and you said yes.

 

"Baby," Barricade mocked, less sorrowful this time. You blew a raspberry to him. 

 

After all, you need to get up early to look for your other phone.

 

 

 

 


End file.
